In a field of barley, I see you,
most temperate of winds,
bringer of summer and all of its rain,
combing the fine and fluent hair,
into surging waves of shimmering silk,
ebbing and flowing, …
ebbing and flowing.
With your venerated breath,
the birds’ tiding songs sung are spread,
from bark walls through foliage verdure,
softly eddying on a ledge,
until broken by a hedge,
where vine looking leaves,
have been nibbled to lace.
Lone poppies, blood orange like fire rose,
know each other’s embrace,
only by the delicate touch
of dainty pollen-coated butterfly legs,
and then they fade, each
petal, into a pale shade of peach.
Whereas barley stands side by side,
only bearing ears,
when whispers …
are exchanged by a wind,
wafting the sweet balm smell of chamomile,
only as gentle as you,
my sapphire rose,
Copyright © Quirina Roode-Gutzmer 2012.