Like the trumpets playing softly
stroke the rhythm of loose thoughts,

today I find it held in little pockets
snug as the bumble bee in a foxglove.

Yesterday it submerged me whole,
carried inside each falling raindrop.

Sometimes it merely whispers
lifting stray hairs off pale temples.

Precious as the living ivory walks,
sought keenly like those bleeding –

diamonds, deep below the collapsing
soil and sun of mother Africa’s smile.

Elusive it remains a Wil-‘o-the-wisp
uncatchable, it clings when least expected.

© Copyright 2013 Abigail Baker


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s