Mist and Cold Kisses

Here in the dark,
at the edge of the wood,
a tear from the Mother
flows from the mud

and into the sea,
to twist in the salt,
where it folds
with the waves,
and sinks
to the heart.

Mist and cold kisses –
missed, the Wind wishes
for a second chance to whistle
her hymn, hissing,
the hymnal’s page flips,
as the gilded edge gleams
brightly from within
the evening’s
mist.

The midnight oaks,
blessed to be so old,
wait and watch
her lips,
whispering a secret,
a hint,
a treasure,
pursed and pressed against
the shore,

where the waves

rumble
rumble

for all they are worth,
until Luna begs
their silence.


©️ Obol, 2020.

Inspiration from the west.

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