in

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.

Source

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

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