Now I need
the glimmer of those island dawns,
an eye that opens
like an oyster
on the edge of dream,
iris of primeval fire
behind a thin membrane of cloud
redefining nude twigs
on the eastward-facing
winter figs, causing
water droplets at their tips
to scintillate, each orb
a tiny golden oracle
of fruit to come,
and halcyon days;
grey limestone slopes enamoured of
their weathered pearly patina;
goat bells nearing, quickening,
clamorous with appetite
for aromatics oleating
fragrance into radiance.
Awakening
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111031002435
Свидетельство о публикации №111031002435
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