Jump
Your feet carving into a hill
and down to the river become
poisonous paths of yellow sick
heads;
chummy dares for the pluck
of your fingers yet.
Where the spring of you is –
tongue lolling, the soft
of laughter, loosely tasted
in the breeze – a bud
to summer, you are
forward; always.
Always going somewhere
hunger lunged
for that sweet bit fit
in your chest, you touch
the river
with your eyes; sparkling
ribbon through
marble-glass.
There is something in the sky -
that great lark of painted bird –
and the way it moves
that clues
the most hesitant part
of your heart
to that cold
delicious
splash
of water.
You jump
like a star fish
into the air;
spokes of the sun
and
a
bomb.
tony sheridan
Thu 29th Nov 2012 00:35
I like this. Take care, Tony.