|
| |
Swan Song
The hound has caught the hare;
the man, the fox
doves, long-flown.
Insensate fish float
on the surface of the lake
shimmering as the ripening rays
of dawn's early sun slide
effortlessly
between the sinking morning mist
and the evaporation
of last eve's darkened frost.
In the misty distance
two swans,
entwined necks locked
in imperishable embrace
savor
the calm, the warmth,
the rapturous silence.
All that is left.
Copyright ©
Terry Miller
|
|