Willows bend & swipe
like horse’s tails
sky bellows thunder:
turning of the year
summer swelter morphs
into cool morning.
Each night
the planets burn,
dead worlds that shine
so bright from distant past
as if
cradled in suspension.
You ask for words,
I have none:
just a bursting
of my heart
as corn winds high
fruit ripens on the limb
a whinny at the gate,
life unfurls each dawn
febrile in its mystery.
Victoria Mosley 