Verge

There is it, a clearing

(once a phantom

of a space where weeds

crossed the path

like nightriders

in the mist)

filled.

 

Nodding, asters

cavort among lavender and alium

noting the direction of travel

to sunland.

Even sparaxis ginger the ground

with an iridescent tumeric, basking

next to the yellow broom, my broom

of the fields.

 

This is my verge

where vigour and dalliance

prance on the wingtips

of light

 

 

Copyrighted by the author

 

 

 

 

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