A Blackbird on the vine

After what felt  like forever in lives other than my own,  I spent time with a friend in this beautiful land of Penwith and this poem, its imprints.

 

 

You hold still the wings of flight

To sound the start and end of light

Time cut on caterpillar ground

 

A glasshouse inside out till night

No open door nor window to scent delight

There the beginning and end in sight

 

A clustered sun hangs on the vine

Circled in the ring of your eye

A momentary love, a purple shrine

 

A sweetness with a seedless taste

An imprinted song plucked to sound

The Chaise Longue a dog-eared page

 

A breath forms a drop leaf to leaf

You wing air to shivering crown

A Blackbird on the vine

 

Bird photo by Balint Szajki on Unsplash

Vine Photo by Robert Erskine