The swallow, darting like my heart, flies into the upper rafters of the hayloft. She holds the new-mown whisps of hay, swerving--a pendulum presence--as you capture the beating of my heart.
Up, into the dark, upper recesses of this passionate, crimson bed, the altar of my soul, and your face, so inquisitive with youthful emotion, breath that comes in quick gasps, touch of softness from the hay, darting, free bird in your eyes, we wonder at a flaming barn in sunset!
Beautiful, I love the picture too. We have house martins nesting under our eaves and they are already contemplating departure, almost a month early. I have a poem on my site dedicated to them, called 'House Martins' Jackie <> <
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
Share
Print
Save
Follow
