December 13, 2022

The hill behind the house lies bare

The hill behind the house lies bare
Shadowed eerily in cloud,
A figure stands alone with the North East wind as shroud.
She turns to leave then hesitates, hearing squadron pride,
Silhouettes on sunset’s wing with the arc of the world as guide.
She waits, a silent beacon,
Her yearning calls~ “Come here!”
Desire fixed on longing seeks communion peer.
The left-wing Sergeant feels her and tilts the squadron’s shear
Close by to let her listen wing spans sounding silk.
‘Whish, whish’ she holds her breath to hear
Rehearsed-circles rise,
Crying the “All clear.”
She bides each eve at vesper-light, eyes fastened on the hill
Willing God to land in feathered, squawking drill.
Muscled breasts stretch landing glides, Sentries stand the guard,
Others dream the onward flight, impatient, but resolved.
Too long they’ve lingered on
Knowing she cannot part.
They wait upon the signal 

Hope lit within a lonely heart.

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