Today’s quote is from ‘The White Birds’.
‘I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!’ W.B. Yeats
This deep earth calls
The winter earth is cold, clay clings colder,
Each day the sun fails more, the year is older,
This earth of ours seeps into our blood,
Its heavy tribute of too many lives
That never flourished from the first green bud.
Deep down, it holds us, with the broken rocks
And twisted roots of trees long dead and fallen,
The twisted bones of unknown dead and fallen,
It holds us twisted in its clay-cold locks.
What good to wish for wings, gull white and grey
The air is empty; this clay is where we’ll stay.