Under the tall peppermint gums
with rain-dark skin and upraised limbs,
I see her choose her body’s way,
pausing to stare out at the grey
of the Huon’s water, and beyond
a cloudy wilderness. Now her blond
hair tied in a mop appears,
her eyes that might be full of tears
as they are brimming with the world,
the color of the sea gone cold.
I could be a hunter in a blind
but she’s no prey. She’s another kind
no one has quite identified,
though doubtless many men have tried.
Enough to love and let her be
between daydreams of sky and sea.
David Mason
David Mason is an American writer living in Tasmania. He was poet laureate of Colorado from 2010 to 2014. His most recent books are The Sound: New and Selected Poems (Red Hen) and Voices, Places: Essays (Paul Dry Books).
Latest posts by David Mason (see all)
- The Air in Tasmania - June 5, 2020
- The Solitude of Work - June 10, 2019
- Incarnation and Metamorphosis - June 9, 2019
