between January and April
i can read a long dark passage
across the gold tipped wings of the raven waters
do you see the princess in her boat
pulling away from the rocky shore
salt runnels show the paths
her paths
where with strong leg and grasping arm
she walked while singing
i used to believe
autumn came
when the months shambled to a close
long after aching august
ripe with blackberries
not now
cold lapping river
the boat drifts towards the mists
from which no boats return
i stand on the shore
my ears perked ready listening for her song
this siren child
denying striking truths
water flows onward
mists gather in
beach made of stone
between January and April
all music is gone