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