image borrowed from yahooA Trail of Feathers
When I saw your house empty
the rose bush dug up
a faint trace of bicycle track
I wondered what happened
to the pillows, we rarely slept
in the bed, preferring a quilt
on the floor, planted pillows
in front of an orange fire, undressed
by flame, night slipping its tongue
under the hem of moon, hushing
eyelids, searching for stars in the dark
of damp hair, exploring paths
over moorland skin, each feather
a door that led us home.
Anonymous
echulme@hotmail.com
Posted over on Applehouse Poetry
1 comment:
Cheers Glenn for putting the poem here too, Eileen
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