Thursday, October 27, 2011
You hold sway in conversations
with the moon
on nights when Jupiter's star is the yellow
of the early autumn.
The first Sunday morning of October
and that first Hunter moon
inseparable in colour.
You are rugged as the Pentland Hills
in all their glory,
as distant as the first cuckoo of the Spring.
I place your words into a horn.
Bury them deep in the pure soil;
and eagerly await
the reply of the Cosmos.