eugenepower-poems

No drib-o-drag in windsock bag; Night hangs still on fairy hill. Flecked with moonlight fairy rill On mossed stone trickle spill. Pale, forlorn, how high the moon Rises like a silvery spoon, Over bracken and heather bell, Casting wide its icy spell, On broad-backed brows of fairy fell.

High, in distant blue sky On an Autumn morning ⏤ Blue like her eyes ⏤ A platinum jet writes a single white line To the one I love and left far away, In the land of a thousand lakes And pale lemon sunshine.