plovers at three

written for Shay’s word garden – Arthur Rimbaud

At three a.m.
she’s not asleep 
wide-eyed with saluting plovers
watching the sky strut by.

Everyone knows
night hides its face
in time lapse imagery,
its galaxies all a whirl,

and she, 
stranded in puckered cotton
and vagabond stars -
observes
heavenly washerwomen, 
exfoliate light -
making space turn grey.

And still the plovers
drive the dark 
on and on.

Each know themselves
to be playthings
of the Milky Way,

bird and human 
together captured 
in its erotic silver-wolf skin,
its astral follies,
and wild, circling solace.

21 thoughts on “plovers at three

  1. Why am I not surprised to find plovers and insomniacs at the very center of the revolving star-wheel of the cosmos? It had to be. You have such a knack, Jo, for finding the perfect unexpected ingredient in all of your poems. Plovers! They must be chuffed to get this star turn, so to speak. πŸ˜‰

    The washerwomen, the plovers driving the dark, themselves playthings… I can’t tell you what a treat it is to read what you create.

    –Shay

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Never underestimate the plovers! They are such tiny but brave birds. I can see them running to the tide line of the galaxy whorls in your poem. “stranded in puckered cotton and vagabond stars ” is a wonderful line.

    Liked by 1 person

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