beam of change,
as if low cloud lost a battle,
grey of the ghost looks so aghast,
it’s got to shift, shoooooo through the shaft –
shackled to the ship of winter…
Shambolic as rollers & tides,
tired of lingering so long onto our hills & TV masts,
ointing every call of shalders, sleeping petals inside sepals.
Bio-rhythm in equinox,
as sun & moon rock onto scales,
through my window on the fourth floor,
I imagine earthly contours, familiar shapes freed from sky lace
and feel water filling our Sound, pull of our faithful satellite –
blue overwashing bridal dress, fresh epidermis of her skin,
eager to unveil to a sun her every charm through sighs & dreams.
on the wings of each black back,
it is written.
Nat Hall, Shetland, UK