by Karen Kelsay
A partial sun suffuses slender weeds
in ocher light. Beside an echelon
of gorse and heather, wispy Maiden Pink
has nearly lost its bloom. The lapwing’s gone
to glide across the mound and mind her young,
as silently as August slips away.
Long sedges with their tawny oval heads
spring out from brambles forming a bouquet
of summer’s final hues. Beyond the gate
low rolling hills have leveled out to bring
a voiceless greeting to the lake. And peace
spreads through the moor, beneath a merlin wing.
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Karen Kelsay is a native Californian who spent most of her childhood weekends on a boat. Her husband is British, she is the mother of three children and travels to England regularly to visit extended family and enjoy the countryside. Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize and author of five chapbooks, her poems have been widely published in journals and magazines including The New Formalist, Boston Literary Magazine, and The Lyric. |
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