cantabile if only it could be
singing as only the night air
with the flowers singing and the notes, entwined
unscrolling, silver on the page, the wave that unwinds
like a musicbox for a child's last birthday
in my heart and in my head
asking nothing more cantabile, nothing said
nothing more than singing
the lark to the moon
the cloud to the tree, elegiac, premonitory
the wind the wind to the serengeti
or rising just a little like the seas
in the ancient fairytale
before the kingdom slips into the foam.
mary angela douglas 4 june 2023
No comments:
Post a Comment