The Blossom On The Bough

L1190763 - Copy

 

Two sonnets for May, and my muse

*

The fires are lit, my lover, and the hills

are flickering with little points of light

The sun is set, and deep within the rills

the seeds of stars are littering the night

The smoke is rising, lover, rising high

in winding spires of ribbons in the air

and in the rivers where the willows cry

and on the leys the ancient druids dare

to walk, the chalk is glowing.  I know you

will never leap the Beltane fires with me

or rise on one May morning in the dew

beside me, spellbound by my poetry

Or so it seems.  But oh, my lover, how

the blossom burns, so brightly on the bough

The maypole’s up, my lover, on the green

its willow ribbons flutter in the breeze

I would you be my king, and I your queen

for one night only, here beneath the trees

The hawthorn froths, my lover, in the hedge

the buds are bursting, birds are nesting high

yet still you fly, my hawk, above the edge

of some cold mountain way up in the sky

Come down, or are you wary that a flame

might fall within your feathers, or a spark

ignite your heart, or god forbid, you came

to want to stay beside me in the dark

It’s so, it seems.  But see, my lover, now

the blossom burning, brighter on the bough

*

© Gail Foster 1st May 2018

 

 

Advertisements

‘If Truth Be Told’; a book of poetry and autobiographical prose

For poetry fans and curious fellows; my book

Cover-1 - Copy

It’s available from Devizes Books (01380 725944), as well as through Amazon.  Herewith the blurb; there’s lots in here you won’t have read.

Everything in this book was written between November 2016 and November 2017.
It’s an odd mixture, really.

Serious sonnets and satirical silliness.
Randy pigeons and St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Feisty stuff and flirtations with form.
Sainsburys and the Avebury Ring.
Grand themes and little ticklish things.
Sadness and spiritual joy.
….
This is my second anthology and yet again I have had to give thought to the diverse nature of my content.
I have decided to treat my readers like adults, and include all my material.  Everything.  Nearly.  Except for my haiku, senryu, and tanka, which belong in another book, and the private things I have written.  Everything including the sweet story about my god daughter, the mysterious case of the socks on the rocking chair, a poem in which I use the ‘c’ word for a fascist, songs of love for beautiful people, wild poems inspired by the muse, and the seedy tale of what happened to me back in the seventies and early eighties.

So here you go.
Take a deep breath.
Thank you so much for reading my work.
*
Gail Foster ~ Devizes, Wiltshire, November ‘17