Climbed to rooftop,
found warm chimney,
perched as bird might do,
darted eyes,
questioned skies,
inhaled for breath of you,
Remnant fire,
cloud wisps gathered,
having heard the plea,
cushioned flight
‘cross endless night,
taken so to thee.
No more lair,
as fox once was,
timid, shelter found,
burrow’d fear
from hostile hounds
hunted to the ground,
till tortured route
to higher plain
lent a diff’rent view
from chimney pot,
where dreams are wrought,
disembodied fox, smoke flew.
Should diembodied fox, smoke flew be disembodied fox, smoke flew?
It’s a totally brilliant line! And a brilliant poem. Love this sort of almost surreal poetry – like there is another shape it’s defining that can’t quite be made out.
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Thanks, Scott! I hate when I do that. Discombobulated by a kindle and too unobservant on my lunch break to notice. I’m glad you liked it – early morning thoughts. 🙂
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I love the way of your mind
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Thanks, Paul. Know any good cartographers? 😉
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