The sweet earthy musk
of clover and hay
travels my way
on the east wind.
In the bold light of noon,
a bright wobbling tune
spills from the beak
of a fat wren.
Something in this flash
of far scent and melody,
gives me pause
and makes me long
for the place
I ought to be.
Something, somewhere
in a dream where
earth herself
sighs and sings,
with honeyed breath
and a voice on wings-
in that place
we ought to be.
pm poetry 