A Landscape Illuminated.
It is the drift between the breath of in and of out,
the fleshy petalled night a poison,
and an endless moonlit rain.
In gardens at very least, the green
will muscle upwards a brief month or two
from cuckoo’s bell and sighing swallows
to the ticking, scratching melodious crickets.
In hills, now, flakes of gold are falling snow silent
and the thin ghosts ever crying for justice
in the long, cold, blue shadows.
We dim with daisies a glimmer haze
And drop of hawthorn goddess,
scented and mean on red-folded air.
Sliding, we are sliding, uncertainly
whether up or down again, the long drip.
Time it is dripping, invented, named, measured
and wasted away as if dawn and sunset were not enough,
and the stars forever clouded and lost in mystery, as they are.
Adrift and turning, rocked gently, dismally declined.
Warmth slow escaping, longing for another somewhere
with bees and lilac and long, painless sleep.
A landscape illuminated, kissed in light,
unburdened with consequence, unfolded.
—
simonhlilly 
Reblogged this on Spoondeep and commented:
Insomnia is sometimes a virtue, perhaps….
the next-to-last stanza is powerful. it could stand alone as a complete work. but there are many things to be admired in the poem. for example, what a wonderful piece of writing is this: “the thin ghosts ever crying for justice/ in the long, cold, blue shadows.”
As ever, many thanks for your attention and comments!