Vespers
       

Languorous grass
in a watercourse;

the poppy bud
and the open flower,

their silk,
satin, and suede;

you are sunfire stored
in a golden pear;

the hour of forgiveness;
hour of the star;

asleep, you are
wheat,

the full moon laid
in swales on the bedsheet

by the blades of the blind;
you are wind

unbraiding the black
manes of waves;

you are smoke
rising from incense;

clear sapphire;
the pale blue flame

of the rosemary;
you are reeds, the ache

and suck of the sea;
you are wine fermenting,

the alchemy
by which grapes change

into tears and dreams;
you are steam

from tea, and the future's
unreadable leaves;

you are the sands
of the crossroads; my salt

hay and driftwood
bonfire, quick

to kindle, slow
to blaze;

you are water raised
to parched lips

from a well,
each breast a handful;

you are dusk, and the whispered
vespers of bees.

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Copyright © 2022 Martin Edmunds All rights reserved
from Flame in a Stable
Arrowsmith Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission