A Nightjar’s Song
Stir this cream-soaked moon, gently wean
sweet milk from cloud-wisped light that’s caught
in warmed white jugs. An owl shrills three hoots,
premonitions of we
two, our hearts askew and scarred
by piercing cries of a nightjar.
Marilyn Braendeholm lives in the UK surrounded by flowers, grapevines, bubbling pots of sourdough starter, bottles of fermenting vinegar, a Springer Spaniel, and a small camera that she keeps in her pocket. She never buys clothing without pockets.