Jorinda

Beyond the forest was a field of
buttercups silvered by rain.
I stayed wordless, resting my throat.
When the lark flew skywards to sing
inside the day moon, my gaze traced
its path and hovered — as did my hand,
(the other on Joringel's arm).
Tides of cold light, of the fragile green
beneath our feet, ebbed away
then flowed back as the lark — pivot
of starred hill and pearl sky — flew down,
a feathered minim, to his nest.