Beka Brun

Intro coming soon…Beka Brun is a poet and writer of Historical Fiction. She was a former ballet dancer for Charleroi Danse – Brussels & Stephen Petronio Company – New York. She now lives by her pen.


On gentle day sounds shape with colour
Soaking sheep and compound in
Yellow, as rook sheds its black
Note upon weary clock.
Then prey invent scurry and knock
Upon the wreck of meat that once
Buried its seed in fur of bark.
And blue quill afloat in arms of
Timely air, scatters breath over hill
Through field of grain and skin of lake.
And unquiet gaze from heron cranes
Where beak and wing excite the den,
As silent finger taps the drum and
Solemn craft tiptoes the page. 


We sat here once when you were 
Absent, by still canal and well-trodden
Path, of cooing shape around vast
Bending wood, and cautious
Eye upon strangers stood.
When crow spat syllable above polished
Tree and sharp tongue wove colour
Through splay of limb, then crippled
Bird spilled under foot and vacant
Word stretched pointedly.
And carp drew silent bated breath
Prodding unseen hornets’ nest, when
Sunken doubt hovered on, like coral
Hawk-moth nectar hung, and aching
Wound stained chattering hour with
You beside me at far-flung tower.


In solitary tread over rock
And clay, where throne is 
Fashioned from frame of spry tree,
Regal in its finery of hoary moss
Abandoning its form to contrived craft.
The rain trickles yarn upon leaf and
Soil, while chirped syllables drop from
Towering birch, and vapour from 
Remote fire hangs sapid and 
Laden in singular damp hour.
The doe lurks steady eye upon
Barren sphere, observing my stable 
Bearing as squirrel vaults from branch
To base, depositing spoils of toiling day.
The rain dissipates as chorale shapes
Load the scene, shifting tone to unearthly
Mould and abating brain to sage temper.

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