A Quartet of Voices
how it lies fallow in dark November hours.
I have a trio of instruments: a spade, my hands, this pen.
And a quartet of voices: yours mine and ours.
I will sing to you of the edge of my despair. Buried
in a mound no bigger than a head of hair, shorn
and fallen to the ground
brown as the undersides of
eyelashes where they rim the bowl of eye
A small grove, tucked in the corner, beyond
where the stepping stones trail.
There I’ve planted, love, one apple and one pear.
They flower every year, white blossoms, naked
dross, suckled by bees, envy of snow,
but they have yet to fruit,
yet to grow.
#Unreal #Poetry #EmilyShearer #Imagery #BuriedLove #Nature
Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.