After Reading The Song of Songs

for my real imagined other

Theirs the earth, the world, mountain, moon. Theirs not this earth, married in the sun. They are whole, whole, holy. Let us dream their path, poetry. Where now is she, where he. Where are we. What do we have. Squabbling city guards silence, always. Playing games, skimming loads, naming to contain. But we have known the leopard’s home, the riverbank at dawn and dusk. Turn, turn to green, what we've been given, passed walls, meadow flowered, field grown, stand beneath leaf, speak tree. Autumn rose, silent bloom, forgotten scent of heights long lost, seed dream -- be.

A. H / K. H-H (28 October 2018 and first published here that day))

republished for Cairn 2019, my WP 1st anniversary.

One Comment Add yours

  1. Toni says:

    Reblogged this on a blind catch in the sun and commented:

    this one it feels never really took off, I wonder if ti is the title. Who knows, I am fond of it though, the feeling that went with it and the reading that led to it.


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