Silence has settled where the spiders weave
and behind the quick wren's bold, darting eye;
the sun that rakes a noiseless last-light by
through intervening medium signs to grieve.
So written-out, I have written out too;
and stilly is the keyboard of my pleas.
Coax me, you can of course, out of the blue;
but Crow I am, and I may keep the cheese.
Harsh as a marsh my voice is - curlew
might lavender by luminescent greens,
softening rough edges, feathered sedges.
Crow, anyhow! Shatter giant dreams. You
can have the best, as well as worst it seems.
We'll trespass on the were-wind's steep ledges.
..
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
