Wish
by Helen Ivory
[ poetry - march 07 ]
Talk soft to me,
talk gently as the night
shuffles its papers
in high offices and hilltops.
Talk low like cattle,
breathe hay-scented words
and I will show you the book
kept inside my coat,
already learnt by heart
by the nightjars that churr
to each other before daylight
setting the darkness home.
