Three ivory spires
rise up from a small hollow
where the road curves round
For the rest of this week’s poetry, please visit my Substack:
a poem
So far below the crying of the moon,
Autumnal, plaintive, for the passing year
That’s gone beyond the ken of moon or stars,
I feel beneath my feet the skin of night
Stretched taut upon the mighty bones of earth,
Where summer’s relicts gild the weary ground
And softly echo weeping that too soon
The days are…
