Old Song

finally, the child is asleep.
the evening sky itself is almost white with fatigue.
it’s so warm that nobody’s out,
and soon i will gaze
over the quiet city streets.

where is the woman
to taste my skin?
perhaps i know her already,
or maybe she is as distant as winter.

well, every bird sings first for itself.

Matt Hetherington (Australia)

1 comment:

  1. Intrigued by the soft joy of simple things and the friendly resignation to patience.


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