Poetry by Willie Smith
Wisps of cloud skim the moon in
braille. The story touches
even hearts unborn. Windswept,
through one another dust-devilled, they wail:
If this be hell, then all true love illicit be.
Both he in her heart, she in his,
prevail; therefore before the wind,
in moonlight, they sail –
beyond reason’s pale.
Gusts – hot once in the blood –
now in air only – kiss the edge.