Charcoal’d tarmac winds
between hunched hedgerow thorns,
under weighted immensity of a pre-Solstice sky:
pewter crossed with silver;
metallic, cold as swords.
Sharp-outlined,
you hang in the wind
without weight,
whistle-calling to the wild.
~Polly Oliver 2021
I love those crisp, sharp metaphors.
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Thank you Jane! ๐๐
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