Dusk drops heavy over the hills
but the stars are too bright for this night,
and the cows they are not sleeping.
Celestial in yellow, they bel-low
a blood song from another night.
As I listen, the veil shifts and lifts,
the space at my breast briefly fills
and the breeze of her breath grazes my cheek.
Permanent as a ghost, somewhere
very near she lies but does not cry.
Those cows do; they are not sleeping.
Their loss is not yet old, their milk still flows
and through barren blue eye, the moon
looks down as if to drown
hills, cows and me.
We have seen too much.
Catch me a swallow at summer’s end
when the sky still spins its blue,
the air is thick with lavender
and wood pigeons call us out to tea.
Make me a robe of autumn leaves
to match the vixen’s pelt,
hide the slug-fat hoglets
and hold me steady against the fading of the green.
Set me running over blue-iced fields,
where air holds the shape of a breath
longer than any set of lungs
and fields fish-kiss frozen puddles.
Call for me in spring
when trees dress in fairy-tale robes,
earth greens up from the ground
and a swallow once again forks the sky.
Louise Taylor’s work often connects to nature or mythology even when that was not exactly what she was intending. Publication credits include BBC Wildlife magazine, Synaesthesia, the Woven Tale Press, Dark Tales and Retreat West. She is co-editor of Words for the Wild. @Sar1skaTiger
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