a poem from my walking …


Our moon fell hard to earth,
soaked through night to soil.
The shivering ground waited;
swallowed silver gilded dust.

For winter a formless heart;
ice and rain raise no pity.
The world holds on …
for something better.

An imperfect star orbits;
reluctant saviour, pulling close.
Warmth and a debt of heat;
full completeness in time.

Gaudy, childish; bright beginnings;
each bloom a promise of love.
Fruiting, swollen. Hopeful.
Promised turn of seasons.

To tear up a weed seed head
is no great violence;
irresistible in temptation,
to be our own child.

The dark in that fullness; a joke.
A clock; the many seeded clock;
he loves me, he loves me not;
to eat, to sleep, to dream, to play.

A dandelion head to count on;
hours, lovers, children, chances.
Standing naked now in full sun;
hard evidence that we fall.

Published by Rebecca Sowray

Living the ordinary dream. Words and music. Keeping the faith in all things local.

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