poetry archive

high-born race
grieve not for the invisible
long has the summer sunlight shone
their beautiful hair
i saw the clouds among the hills
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
her face is fair and smooth and fine
beneath my window in a city street
soft as the bed in the earth
when the wind works against us in the dark
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
that year
the stars fell from heaven