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He Writhe
Not by her eyes did I stop in my tracks
Though they spoke as Celtic forest rings
And glittered as a wyvern's hold.
Not by her voice soft,
Sweet as a siren entrapping my soul
Resonate as Christmas bells carried by
A valley crystalline in new snow.
Neither her touch, which infuses my weary flesh
Tonic of revival and haven of hearth.
Delicious like peppermint cider
Warming me from within.
Not by any, but by all these
Her being more than jetties to break the waves
More than trees that soften the squall
More than a harbor for my soul
Yea, he writhe in pleasure, peace, and home
Hiraeth.
Copyright ©
Matthew Wetter
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