The Kiss

It seems contentment becomes or is

knowing and resting

on the spoilt coast of the kiss.

This morning jets of blossom

in the blossoming tree

spring a surprising red,

wagtails tack to the lawn

and the world throws back its head

neither knowing nor resting

the strong tree where the clear-eyed

blackbird’s whistle and nesting necessity sum,

there in the blood of blossom and bole, the sun.


(from “The Light Of Day (I)” to be published soon)

What do you think?

4 points


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