wanderer’s refrain

in delight
we paint the dark
from night descending
and fold tomorrow
into the tide
wandering feet
forget to dream
of horizons
other than home
and words
beat as moths
against the light
of the breath
from your lips
pull the roads
right out my heart
and startle the stars
down from the sky
the moon forgets to rise
feathers forget to fly
but I –
I recall the shine
of our limitless mind
and the shadow
we cast over time
over space
over these words
of mine

© Sarah Whiteley

cover me in clover
let the sparrows
pass me over
and the calling curlews
cry the dying day
let lilies lie together
with growing grasses gather
to whisper the ways of we
the whys of me
the ties that be
and being, ever are
let my fingers lace the leaves
and my eyes transcribe the sky
between the trees
that tower silent over all
my hair in ivy twining
and I, I lie repining
in the hollow with the wind
among the waving of the rye
dim dance the stars
drawing up the rising moon
in hours ever darkening
as night takes flight upon the air
let the roses drop their petals
and the pansies press their breath
against the hill where mosses
grow to softly pad my rest
shield me in shadows
in the bower only crows know
where the river flows
and wends amidst the reeds
with the summer softly sighing
her song sweet respite plying
let the dew fall chilly gleaming
upon my dreaming breast
call the swallows
to the hollow
and the wrens
to guard my rest
and sing the days of we
the ways of me
the ties that be
and being, ever are

© Sarah Whiteley


delight is fleeting
and softness
too soon hardens
clay beneath
the heat of loss
the road runs constant
on and over between
fancy’s fading fields
keening streams
carry sinners’ dreams
to seas restless
as dormant dreamers
adrift in empty beds
of their own making
night is fleeting
and sorrow ever-waking
sleeping feet
travel dreaming trails
and never find
the bread crumbs
leading home

© Sarah Whiteley

restless nocturne

I do not wake
from day to day
morning, night
ever the same
wakeful sleeping
my very skin
lies restless
on these bones
bleached white
by moonlight
brittle as day
in December
the recollection
of things once
wished for
ties the threads
of my minutes
to intervening
hours, hours, hours
of wakeful nothing
to sleep
to dream
soft wishes
a pillow
grey dust
of night’s
bright stars
to cover
me over
at peace
at last