Refuge
Wind flaps open the tent.
Supine, you catch me
making love to darkness,
my hands bracing its
non being, my lips
darting inside its depth.
Between two no man’s lands
Here we are. Here I am.
A fistful of breeze.
A tilt of head to see
autumn rushing away
the refugee clouds.
Reblogged this on Words Surfacing… and commented:
Refuge
Wind flaps open the tent.
Supine, you catch me
making love to darkness,
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Reblogged this on smithsurf and commented:
Poem number 61: the Writers for Calais Refugees blog.
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So many levels of meaning and power and imagery. Well done.
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