Bridget Thomasin

Other Lives

Footprints blur
as the dew dries.

A wild tang sharp
and secret hangs in the air.

Never far away
are lives unknown unheard

as complete
and satisfactory

as the memory of sorrel
and asphodel of morning rain.


On the Fringe of Night

Soft in the windless dark

by the hovering grey of dawn

an owl slides
from the trees
riding the last of the night

and fades
into the still depths
of all my longing.