Crone’s Patience

Winter land gray, hawk-still, slow
river under ice-shroud; with the moon
fair I far-see: Autumn spells won’t hold
her, not for all the heartsease in the world.
I dream of her hair-shorn, light and dancing
at forest verge, spinning rope of spring-buds,
rain-troth. I string out these shriveled words,
sup on desire, waiting. My girl will come back.

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11 thoughts on “Crone’s Patience

  1. I so love this series of dreamy, magical, fairytale poems! The way you consistently use key words and manage to keep the same mood in each one is inspiring and spellbinding. I can just imagine a little cottage by the woods, maybe a quiet path going past. “I string out these shriveled words, / sup on desire” might be my favourite.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. This comment will keep me floating all week. Thank you. I’m having fun playing fiction-poet. Images, setting, character, but none of the worry about plot! 😉

      Liked by 1 person

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