In forgotten places
She made our bed,
Draped with golden
Sun and shade only,
Longing lovers name
As they stalk shyly, shines
Of trailings, low happinesses
That others delve seemingly
Deep and joyous always into
Graces left everlasting for them.
In forgotten places, of hurt,
We made our streaming supper.
By a bank that only salmon traverse,
Knowing with hazel branch and leaves
Buried round ancient moss of circle stones
This was our testament, the tame grasping
Of light as it flickers in a whirling of whim,
The hot breath which knows coping hope
Has no end in beginnings, the lancings
Of eyes as they tear into faint mystery,
Lamb white and bleeding, sacrificial
In the dawn, trained to never want.