I’ve been working on this poem for a few days. Seems like a good moment to post it. For the NaPoWriMo pastoral prompt.
We walk in the dark of the wind-rushy trees,
listening to their wind-rushy voices,
solemn and wise and old as the earth,
silencing birdsong and furtive rustlings
from woods, hedges, field edges
and sleeping gardens.
Hands touch, but can they hold it back,
the something, pale blue and shimmering,
that seemed to fade in the dusk?
Wind rushes, rolling the perfume of lilac along the lane,
playing the woodwind of rose and oriole,
bowling garlic flower notes against the dark.
Wind ruffles flowerheads with gentle hand,
my face, sharper, imperious—listen, feel—
then suddenly the stream,
banked in heavy scents of wet earth,
edged in elm and elder,
alder and willow boughs sweeping low,
calls in the pure ringing voice
of spring water running
and the notes, a seamless weave,
leave no space for sadness.