simonhlilly

HARVEST FESTIVAL

Cloud rests, winged.
Feathered, these upland mists.
Green grey the day along
Swathed and shrouded hills.

The still, one prayer, arcs
The scooped valleys.
(Pitted the stones,
Time-pocked).

A bell, a peal:
A gathered fruitfulness,
A hymnal of sunlit days.
In sainted, beached ship,
Sails of praise turn tides.

We become indwelling,
Folded,
The promise of rain,
The blackbird’s quiver-
Heart arrowed, liquid.

——