Poetry By Tucker Robinson

Photo by Joran Quinten on Unsplash

Washed-Pink

Heaven drops kinder out here. 
A pastel pageant from on high,
it paves the Sun’s retreat
in tiles of rose and peach and lilac. 

In the meadow I am submerged.
My face upturned,
wreathed in celestial light.
The warm air teases dew-beads of sweat
that slide through the raised hairs 
of wearied arms. 

It’s easy, when the limits of time and movement are relaxed,
to watch the Swallows dance – 
small angels darting, 
Waltzing, Whorling, Wending
endlessly – my gaze transfixed upon them
and to that shimmering dome from which they dazzle,

so that I to they upswell,
and my breathing is the wind,
and the wind tugs my hair in the same caress
it gives the tree’s supple bough.

The washed-pink widens,
The pale sky heightens
and something small, strung far away
tickles my eyelash in the breeze.

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Tucker Robinson is a poet based in Bermondsey, London.