This Song of Sparrows.

Unopened, dun letters envelop the floor.

Sheaf leaflets, none read; too many to mention…

But her hand, delivered today to my door –

penned, posted, scented – receives full attention.

Her lines bring pleasure to me, and I glean

nuance from her Wish You Were Here missives.

News from her mill and river, hills of dream.

‘I will, and shall, return. I send kisses.’

I miss her, I whisper. So I conjure

and raise Cuthbert’s Causeway, macadam

our passage, our birdsong adventure;

sweet bee, bring honey; unimagined.

June thirteenth, her paved shadow, first rising,

aslant in glass, brushes chrome in umbra;

blushes my morning through noon, producing

a cool breeze, implausible last summer.

I light a jarred candle and write her:

tonight the room shallows, throws shadows, and grows…

I invite her. Come, lay by my fire.

Kiss, address, send her, this song of sparrows.

 

Image: The Hill of Dreams (1907) Arthur Machen