Lesbian Poetry

Fields

Simple as squirrels
among angelic trees
through butterfly-winged spaces
I sped, supple as sunshine,
past the frog-rippled pond
as the full fat moments
of commodious May
savoured me with easy grace.

That's long dead in the sun's slow grace
and now, at sunrise, upon the distant hill.
a little figure beckons, calls me
to that wakeful place again
to steal from the eyes of flowers
the light, that lovelorn light,
that fled while I sang to sleep
while the eagles cried above the pathless fields.