Cold as a demon lover, wind
hovers among sky-rigged strings
as if a lyre or mandolin
mused in the rocks’ rough thorax.
We travel roads that lie within,
released by vast, aeolic themes
and fleeting messengers of wires
where spirits vocalise and keen.
If I could live outside my skin
the lyrist wind would lie with me,
iconoclast of fate and creed,
vagabond of cosmic dreams,
breathing above the closer notes of birds,
small insects in the reeds,
betrothing low-voiced sea to soaring
sky in perfect synergy.
Lyra
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103022600779
Свидетельство о публикации №103022600779
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