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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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.
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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! 😉
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Now THAT is a brilliant idea!
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“I dream of her hair-shorn, light and dancing
at forest verge, spinning rope of spring-buds,
rain-troth.”
Five stars!
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Aw, thank you! I just cut my hair short again…wonder how that image got in here. 😀
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😀
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Just lovely. I am trying to figure out what I like best here, but it is all so enchanting. Your voice is very clear and strong in these.
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Oh, thanks! Steeped and pickled in fairy tales and fantasy…it seeps out!
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Enchanting is the word. A beautiful spell-spinning arrangement of words.
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Coming from you, this means a lot. Thank you.
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It’s gorgeous 🙂
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