He feels damp tendrils
clinging to his fingertips
like tentacles of baby octopus.
She visualises weightless
umber domes and cupolas
wavering above their marble
terraces, aloft in space.
Wired to the sky her vision is
a kite riding the gusty light,
plunging tilting on planes of grace,
hovering face-down smiling,
skimming serrated tree-reefs, roofs,
an ecstatic dervish.
He fins below the surface of the sea
seeking lost argosies,
sifting the blindfold weedy depths
for forms of hulls and figureheads.
Beyond the walls the traffic rumbles:
"Pretend it is the wind."
Carillons echo from the hills,
the lovers resonate like bells.
Wired to the Sky
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103031000123
Свидетельство о публикации №103031000123
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