Clare

 

You snatched the elements

twisted dust to golden sunlight

emptied rain into ripening apples:

 

now earth glimmers with new potencies.

 

They come to you, hands high eyes empty:

you spin them stories of their own intentions,

gossamer web woven, for tomorrow.

 

All that’s missing here are peacocks

a trompe l’oeil of peacocks,

a mystery man to palm the future

 

like a rose plucked from your garden.

 

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