The silhouetted wings of
a heron swished
lordly across a dawn
and reddened moon,
cracked by the infant Ash trees,
across there.
We talked of dreams,
of Holy things for the day
that was.
Your hair screamed fire
into my head,
alive in you.
We shared the secret mead.
Would that we could bind as one
to swim into the silvered path
of the blooded seed,
across there.
We spoke and spoke and spoke
of carpenters banging nails
banging belief in things
banging nails into hands
and the futility.
A splash sent ripples
stealing, arched, gliding
creeping towards our feet
that dangled,
crested on the cover
of the river,
across there,
covering all things.
Not salmon, but seal
washing his early skin
spooning and slinking
smiling and sinking down again.
We sit. Here.
Here.
I live this moment.
Part. Full of this nature orgy
across there.
While we're here. Living
feeling every last wink
of life
Here. I'm not across there.
I'm here. With you.
Sonja Broderick
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/holy-thursday-2/
