Solstice
The longest night. The moon
sways close on its string.
We decorate the bed
with figments of light –
tinselly bodies drop sparks
on the carpets, the sheets.
The earth tilts. The stars dip
near enough to waste on our tongues.
Rosie Breese has been a bad musician, an events organiser, a champagne waitress and a civil servant. Her work has appeared in nthposition, Agenda, Poetry Wales and Poetry Review.
“Bad musician” or not, Rosie certainly knows how to convey meaning thru the short poem. I’ll make a wager your sounds are not as bad as you think. Music, akin to poem-making and loving another being, takes endless work. Good, Rosie!