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
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
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.