Poem: The Dark Night (XVIII)

The Dark Night (XVIII)
–May Sinclair

Our love is woven
Of a thou­sand strands—
The cool fra­grance of the first lilac
At morning,
The first dew on the grass,
The smell of wild mint in the wood,
The pun­gent and earthy smell of ground ivy crushed under our feet;
Songs of birds, songs of great poets;
The leap­ing of the red squir­rel in the tree,
The run­ning of the river,
The com­mo­tion of stars and clouds in the high winds at night;
And dark stillness.
It is adorned with all the flowers
That stand in our garden;
It holds the night and the day.

Our love is made
Of the South Wind and the West Wind,
And the soft falling of rain;
Of white April evenings;
It is made of trees,
And of the many-coloured fields on the hills;
Of horizons,
Dark sea-blue of the west, thin sky-blue of the east,
With a yel­low road between.
The flames of sun­set and sunrise
Min­gle in the fire of our love.

Cyn is a proud Mommy & Mémé, professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
Posts created 4241

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Related Posts

Begin typing your search term above and press enter to search. Press ESC to cancel.

Back To Top