dark is the delver
searcher of secrets
slipping beneath
abandoned eyes
enticing morsels
from forgotten corners
to dance and weave
a performance of
hapless marionettes
Author: Paul Paterson
feathering the storm
they herald the wind
feathering distant portents
to soften the blow
renew
unstitch old cloth with
love, lay it down for others
save the thread for you
blush
blush
mocked grey clouds
slow to pink
beginning the quiet song
that lifts our eyes
to their opulence
our shallow breath
at one in their moment
but too soon
we close our hearts
when their song has faded
into shadow
george and us all
if who we are is
seen as less than a river
we will all run dry
widen woods
did I know only good things
in the life I walked as a boy
striding like a milk-fed king
into the deepening woods
its gentle brooding and dank breath
seeping in my limber soul
and here I nailed my fledgling spirit
to the scabrous skin of every tree
staking a claim on these
melancholy choristers
to assert my own world
against the growing void
found
a fallow field lies
dormant waiting for the plough
to peel back its truth
river tide
at the echo of
our moons wish
cold waters scurry
its plague of ripples
a long drawn breath
back into the lungs of the land
urging the freedom of its flotsam
that drag like windless kites on
a pulled sheet from the bed
this brackish pulse
held to the will of another
fulfilling a promise
apart
we drink from half cups
sipping like birds
to keep this precious
liquor from too much loss
dipping our heads
for a drop each day
to savor its warming
on our tongues
until the day
we can swim in its rivers
the carrying
gull drifts on a scented wind
he doesn’t question how it came
it was always meant for him
the unseen carrier
enveloper
lifting him up to fill his view
with every barreling wave
that pours its joy onto
fervent flaxen shores