by Molly Swan-Sheeran

At last the sun
breaks free of the gray cover,
leaving a glaucous sheen
on the horizon.
Two eagles,
inspired by the wind,
spiral around each other
in their amorous dance.
Aerobatic
in the gusts and updrafts
their strident call seems to echo
as they envision a clutch of eggs
gracing a nest of branches and twigs,
spacious atop a noble-fir snag.
What strange flotsam, feathers, bottled messages
will fetch up on our beach
in this November wind?
As the sky turns robin's-egg-blue
in a pale froth of golden peach,
we accept that each indrawn tide,
like each indrawn breath,
like each spin of our Earth
from dark to new light,
is a gift.

©Molly Swan-Sheeran

Posted in Poetry |