Wednesday, July 04, 2007

The Hour

Her voice sung its greeting
Like blood warmed hair
But the grass stayed cold
On feet tucked under skirts.

Despite the feathers that
Fluttered from tongue to tongue
The breeze was never enough
Never lasted long.

But still it always came
Danced its way through sycamore helicopters
And rested in her breath
Through the sun and through the dusk

Pretending to stay.
But in the Hour
The hour of shivers and purpling grey
The rocks rise up

Voices not calmed but quietened
Ridicule the breeze
For minds
That dare not raise their eyes.


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