Wait for words…
The wind weaves.
I sketch the grass.
I write these words to end a tanka.
We must face each fireless night.
Bath-stone built up about the natchrul Avon’s course ‘n curves…
Now mourned’s the passing peace of night, its flight flown with the scorching licks of star-fire at its torn ‘n frayed heels.
Silent morning. Earthly peace. Servant girl re-swaddles.
Soundless stands each stretch of houses.
Bayit-Lekhem in wintrous calm as coarsest night kills evening.
The candle on the island lights the moving, glass-bound muse.
Beneath the raised voices sinks the sound of someone leaving…