Poetry Moment


Words whistle through
Emerald leaves of oak.
I journey from the mundane
To the particular,
Searching for pennings
Long stilled.
If I could
Step past the uniform
Grey wash of the sky,
Re-mouth words spoken
In a dream,
I could recall you to me,
But words slip
Through fumbling fingers,
Fly fleece-filled
Across the milky dawn line
Like stag-headed Hunt master
Prancing impatiently-
Cloven hooves like rifle shots-
In crackling clean snow.

CS Knotts

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