The low sky had become charcoal grey
so much
so that the moon heard not voices
that swallowed the world
and peace of centuries which dwelt
in green pastures,

here
amidst the shadows sleep swans, their dreams amalgamating
into one
I consider choosing you
knowing well that Cygnus would approve
you see
I have had these instances
where chrysanthemums have urged me to feed my soul
yours
is the journey I wish to embark upon, as laughter grows
into something fond,
a feeling
cherished and stored for days
when the sky threatens to turn
a shade darker.

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Read here about The Swan in Celtic Mythology.

Posted for Weekend Mini-Challenge @ Real Toads

And Posted on the Poetry Pantry @ Poets United