Fay Slimm.



When words mean
no more, as sentences stand to the side
in haunting silence,
allowing young moon, head in low mist
of kissing cloudlets,
to re-bound one nightingale\'s drenching
of air streams
with bird sound I stand in awe hearing

magic dreamily waiting for more..

I shall remember
this silver-sheened lake-side songster,
trills echoing
before disappearance in tallest spears
leaving dumb  
wonder with which I now dare to write
versing the sequence 
of key-dripping outburst in meaningful
phrases, describing 
the piercing harmony of winged pride
voicing heart beneath 
diamond star-brooches bent on joining
the listening scene
which appeals to my pen and as water 
aids bird in rippling  

duet broken is night\'s hold on silence 

and begins by torchlight

this my humble attempt at poetic ode.