The Dawn Singer
The wind is old
in the rose coloured country
where I walk with you towards the dawn
where we drink of a cup
that never was
that brings no loss
that swallows pain
redone, remade anew.
You sing to me
in a soft foreign tongue
I used to know before being born,
full of rolled r’s and ocean hushes.
Your white skin pearls and uncurls
a parchment of promise, your hands
outline my wants, full of birds and forests
gods and devils, angels and skinwalkers
and the long fall down Eden’s well.
Nothing could be as sweet as
this dream of it, of your palms
under my chin lifting
my face to your eyes,
your voice in my ear a touch
itself, deep cobalt echo of
a distant windrung chime,
our fingertips feathering
to read the tale marked in braille.
Your eyes of moon;
how their light rips
against the black,
dawn songs sung
above the ears’ range
only in the choirbox
of my heart.
Photo: The Rose Coloured Country, by Petteri Sulonen
Thanks Petteri, both for the use of the image,
and for choosing the phrase from the poem as title.Petteri's blog, Come to think of it