Summery poem
Exile
The year the quince swelled, swifts dipped
over our city garden,
and the sky opened up for us all -
we saw so clearly the children
and felt in our hearts the child’s clear song
bones lengthening, heads full of light
as berries glistened, rhubarb turned
to the sun, pinkening
and little sandals lost long ago were warm.
Let us go back to the moors,
deep combes where larks ring up their truth
and scatter ribboned notes that fall
like strands of soft-brushed hair,
where the sessile oaks and the standing
stones and hanging trout know all
that we forget,
far from the wilderness, wide skies,
till the swifts reclaim us.
Mesmerizing Sarah!
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