Sun on the ram’s horn
labyrinths your agate hand,
we watch the curved blade
split the grain.
You elevate at the peak,
you founded a palace
upon the ascent
like a jasper chair,
we float on the clear stones
like a sea.
We travel the labyrinth,
we draw roses into the garden,
we taste the release of smoke
from capture,
my love,
like a hunting falcon strikes
the interlacing sky.
John Swain
John Swain lives in Le Perreux sur Marne, France. He has published two collections of poetry, Ring the Sycamore Sky and Under the Mountain Born.
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