Spill of rain —
that chorus of singular heartbeats
joined,
murmuring insistant voices
that slip between
the furred edge dividing
dream
from waking;
I would listen to that
Ancient rhythm,
a tidal memory pulling
upon my veins;
I would wear that wild scent
dabbed on wrists and throat,
blue-gray and violet curled
about my ankles.
I would linger in this song,
this memory of rain,
and wash
my heart of grief.
— C.Birde, 4/16
12 Comments
beautiful. :))
Thank you kindly 🙂
Thank you, kindly 🙂
🙂
Fantastic.
Thank you, as always — my biggest fan 😉
Do I know this image? I seem to be drawn to it? 😊
You definitely know it! Please, remind me of its name…? 😉
It was in Trentham Gardens, the ruins of the old buildings x
Thank you, Jackie — for some reason, Trentham will not take root in my memory! Such an amazing place. 🙂
the “furred edge” is unexpected, striking. and then there are the “wild scents” and “blue-gray and violet curled/
about my ankles.” the poem takes me into a different world. — michael
Thank you, as always, Michael — sometimes, I think I have a foot in another world…one that is a little kinder, a little gentler, and considerably more magical. I try to carry that around with me to ward the slings and arrows the real world thrusts upon us. 🙂