simonhlilly

LONGING

Whiteness are the cries:
The gull’s long falling.

Souls, dead sailors,
Yearning for the taste
And smell of their women.

Hungry for the certainty of land,
A green that does not oppress the chest,
(The cold density of blackness).

Weightless, they long for weight,
For edge, an up and a down,
The rolling hills,

The cold, bright iron of sunlight,
The balm of church bells,
A pattern to days,
A scent of mown grass
After rain.

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