Snowdrops –
sumptuous Monet strokes.
Last time I looked
tiny bells were well-snooded
kow-towed to the dawn
soft whisper of waxed stems.
This profusion of sustenance
would not be suffered to languish
had I not sold the sheep –
cross-bred, semi-goatish –
they'd've plucked off each shoot
and ruminant-chewed,
yellow eyes... slitted...
incorrigible, wicked.
In this glorious morning light
hard not to feel like a bride,
wide paddocks sprigged with white;
petals that early peeped
strewn by tremulous wind,
mimicking confetti.
True hearts are not distanced
by time or inconvenienced
by difficult contexts
but in Truth are affianced,
not bonded by a white dress
but united in tenderness.
YOU ARE READING
Borealis Love
PoetryLove - what does that word mean, what does it comprise? Do we always recognise it when faced with it? Do we value it when we ought to do so? Do we squander it when it is too easily given? Do we ever understand until it has left us and we are left to...
