Maggie Butt



in the wheel of the stars

and the mow of the hay

in the blaze of amaze

at the birth of the day


in the whir on the wire

and the scorch of the sun

in the warm and the storm

and the world on the run


in the roil and the broil

of the clouds’ heaving heap

in the indigo dusk

and the drifting to sleep


in the flap of a wing

or the bat of an eye

the slowness of Sunday

years scampering by


in the damp of the drizzle

the warmth of a glove

let there ever be you

let there ever be love