Sunday 26 November 2006

Invocation

Ripped sharply from the edges of sleep,
I hear the crowds beneath my window.

The sounds inside the room die down,
Flare up, then stop.

As if in some ancient tapestry, the moon,
The stars devour your skin.
The grass eats your soul,
Every blade takes a bite.

I read of scarecrows,
Guarding the cliff top fields,
But now they are gone.
The mariner’s seagulls have flown,
And the first frost creeps on the window pane
Like a quiet invasion of tiny stars.

B.

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