So wistful within the spirits I call to the clouds before the light,
Be watchful. The bird has flown, deft and fleet upon the air.
The lightning flashed and lifted the bird which had sung all day
to watch the blue wave curl and break,
as bright as that first summer
when I fell in love with high, far-seeing places.
Softly now the lights of day in glowing embers
flash of love and peace.
Daughters of time into the silent land
twine me roses wet with dew.
Pencil-in the sky with flowers,
bold and bright from Cymry's bowers;
for there was never a sound in the wood but one
under a dusky laurel leaf.
© 2013 John M. Marshall