The summer knell – a quiver in the breeze
of meadow bluebells, shadow-fighting dusk,
when slanting rays caress with drowsy bees,
you slowly slip your sense, around the musk
of sleepy fingertips, arouse! awake!
a promise interrupted — whispers almost brusque:
‘We need to talk’, and suddenly you take
a fist of dust you saved to fill our night,
with broken dreams and smell of burning brakes.
I still recall those words, before the fight,
before we lit that pyre underneath
to let the ash and shadows quench our light
So now I gather bluebells for a wreath
recalling sting of sudden words unsheathed.
Linked to Toads’ Tuesday plattform.
April 14, 2015