Saturday, 9 June 2018

the thrush

what was it that sang
under a foundling moon
that when i answered back
all hell was loosed
and prerogative strode
down the throat of dusk
until the silver birch all defused in lullaby 
and the sleepy stars tinkled down the day
until silence reigned in the owl breath night
and the door closed

No comments:

Post a comment