Wednesday, 5 March 2014

Another found poem…

…Never fair

Fly unto a curlew’s weeping distance;
But grant your arching wings a closer hold,
That, reaching down, their feather fingers fold
My saddened soul into your breast. Entrance

Your wandering, restless flight with love of me,
And pale not your roaming heart, but brighten
All with my fond love of you. Go: tighten
Our strong bond – but yet return, and softly

Cry my name from that sad curlew’s weeping;
Grant my aching wings your hold when sleeping.

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