A Poem by Rowan Blair Colver
Little light upon the hill,
Upon whose head does your lantern spill,
Which dream, which cradle is grasped by your rays,
Keeping the street and the windowsill still, along the line of the hill, until day?
Telephone wire, dissect the sky as the crisp whites of off pink roses,
Shine in the duskly creep of shadow clasp, foxes wake from their doses,
And rise and shine like pebbles in the lava lamp, swimming and fragile,
Forthright and sunken with the morning time with blankets and welcome smiles,
The dandelion opens like the sunrise.
Among tooth and claw firmly rooted in silence but for earthworms,
Which know more than they will tell you, by the way,
Like flies who have sat upon walls of the folk who make the telephone calls,
Which travel like lightning upon the sectioning of the skies.
Little light 'pon yonder hill,
Whose dreaming eyes does your lumina spill,
With wishes deep of synthetic glow,
The intent within to light up the road, for you.
Rowan Blair Colver