She heaved the hove of harbingers
Weaving droves a-swirling in the sky
While tending to the messengers
& gleaming silken metaphrases.
Heaving the hove above a darkling sea,
If ever she had words for anyone
She tucked them in her hat & called
Them mocking birds. Heaving
Harbingers masked as mantises
Praying for deliverance wherefrom
Nobody wanted to reveal. So peel back
The brandied orange skins warning
Sweet desires predictable. Rain
Again in the desperate sky borne
On the wings of exceptionated
Spies, sneaky shites every one.
© R Young
Photograph © D Young
studio arago 