BRIDE OF THE WIND
by Barry Tebb
Both had come with no gardener but the soul;
I had myself expressed them in weariness,
Like the last drop of milk from your tired breast.
The red rose was no rose for me.
My black rose shone in a silver dawn
In the throat of the wind.
On the tongue of the wind
I taste your spirit;
I will bear you on my toes
To the roof of the world.