Iron-forged cliffs and humbling roads,
A cliffside edge across the garden.
Those windswept lines of paint
Burn through paths of nesting birds,
Iron-clasp net buckling underneath
All the auburn trees before dusk.
White smoke laden with lavender husks,
Keep your cards tucked to a rabbit-pulse
Chest and breathe in the firewood fumes.
The air is burnt, rustling leaves drifting
Down to your bended knees that
Breach the net and whistle blowers.
Everlasting day and raven night
Tucked into the wings of stardust,
We all bleed the rot from our chests.
A wildflower and crooning bird
Wrought in the forthcoming summer.
The wings of a nightingale and
Silent musings of hawthorn trees.
Blades of grass and windchime bones
In the rolling hills, all seeking eventide.
We ponder in the quiet-keeping,
Hollow skin and bated breath.