Thinking of the rhythm of a bodhrán brought this poem.
Red anger cools in morning mist,
while doves coo in the waking trees,
slow green and thick the river runs
beneath the bridge that’s stood so long,
it knows each lover’s parting words.
Listen, wind and water to
the mutterings beneath the breath,
beneath the lashes, look and tell me
what is left when all is gone.
Doves stretch and curl their wings about
their only love, most precious gift,
while we who strive to touch the stars,
trip and stumble in the night,
the heart that beats to lead the way,
doused in the dark flood of desires.
No cooing words to soothe the pain,
no winged barque will come for us
and sail into a sunset sky.
Though anger cools, it drips and sets
in livid white like candle wax,
long, greasy scars of cold regrets.