Rowan Berry

by rakepoetry

My Cork-Side, Irish girl

Your fingers thick with butterflies,
You speak with the pitch of old ways;
That perfect pitch, thatch-deep
In the rolling green meadows, set steep
In the cliffs of clare on a summer’s day,

And when you sing — it is fresh
As a sunset breeze, and your voice lifts
With the heart of a rowan berry!


If you enjoyed the poem. please leave a comment.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: