Thursday, September 7, 2017

Pretty Saro

Reek of wet hay fades.
You first came to this country
When you were twenty and five,

Half-hoping ballads
Would be sung about your love
Or maybe not, I don't know.

You saw many fair lovers
But never saw yours
Who sat near you, uplifting
As a matter of honor

Your wings to the air.
You left him for fair weather
And another who kissed you
Through your feathers on a dare.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.