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My love late walking in the rain’s white aisles
I break words for, though many tongues
Of night deride and the moon’s boneyard smile
Cuts to the quick our newborn sprig of song,
See and believe, my love, the late yield
Of bright grain, the sparks of harvest wrung
From difficult joy.
My heart is an open field.
There you may stray wide or stand at home
Nor dread the giant’s bone and broken shield
Or any tendril locked on a thunder stone,
Nor fear, in the forked grain, my hawk who flies
Down to your feathered sleep alone
Striding blood coloured on a wind of sighs.
Let him at the heart of your true dream move,
My love, in the lairs of hope behind your eyes.
I sing, to the rain’s harp, of light renewed,
The black tares broken, fresh the phoenix light
I lost among time’s rags and burning tombs.
My love late walking in the rain’s white aisles
See and believe, my love, the late yield
Of bright grain, the sparks of harvest wrung
From difficult joy.
My heart is an open field.
There you may stray wide or stand at home
Nor dread the giant’s bone and broken shield
Or any tendril locked on a thunder stone,
Nor fear, in the forked grain, my hawk who flies
Down to your feathered sleep alone
Striding blood coloured on a wind of sighs.
Let him at the heart of your true dream move,
My love, in the lairs of hope behind your eyes.
My love walks long in harvest aisles tonight.
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