Wild Peregrinations

ALL CREDIT TO THIS ONE GOES TO EMMA NEALE:

From the lookout point

of sleep’s edge

the years spread back

with all the pinprick fires and dark clutches

of an old, uneasy settlement.

The thoughts watch themselves

the way one falcon acts silent sentinel

to another across the blue whisper

of desolate distances.

Then as if it believes

its moon-washed, grass-gold skin

will be ample camouflage—

the dart, the jink,

the erratic dash and back-dash:

hope’s wild peregrinations,

love’s blood-sweet liqueur

crammed beneath its skin.

Emma  Neale