John Lusardi – Fox

Fox

Wild goose farm sits in masts and mist, with fading half moons
The distant whistling of thrushes ripples the may blossom; at the pond side
Amongst Lapped reeds, snapped terrier barks; break the still air
In the left over remains of night, the grey lag trumpeted morning peeps,
From deep under the dissolving stars as cold as the hanging sandstone cliffs
Focusing oval hazel eyes, wide on the vantage point, wait
Unmoved by the momentary broken stillness, mixed in the violent; violet light
Are shapes of things to come with secrets slyly carrying need?
Opaque clouds against the half moon hides a glimmer light, maybe hope
But, sharp bare unbroken ivory, justifies its tools in silence, the bluebells sway, and the goose stillness, sleeps in the broken farm.

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