Brush Strokes

A low flying crow paints a shadow
Across her thoughts
Finding her lost in a distant land
Standing with her face to the wind,
Imagining his breath against her cheek
And the whisper of his voice
As it curls around her ear

Her eyes are soft with sorrow,
Her lips naked of kisses;
Long has it been since he slept
Breathless at her back,
Reaching for Love in his dreams
And finding her
In the brushstrokes of midnight

Long, since the soft amber of morning
Entwined with the last wisps of night
Found them
Somewhere over the moon
Just before it set
Lifting them into the future
On horses with wings

Longer still since the poem began,
Brushed in gentle strokes
At the hands of a poet oblivious of his gift,
Words that touched upon places
Previously unknown to man
But remained indelibly engraved,
An epic yet unfinished

And she stands with her face to the wind,
Eyes closed to the world,
Listening to the breath of his heart
As he speaks to her from a distant land,
Whispering 
You are the brush stokes 
of my life.



Janet Reid
july 2008




Awarded by Poetic Constellations ~ Cherri





Awarded by Poetic Constellations