Poem by Barbara Davey
Post-equinox, the light inside is different now.
A frieze of hornbeam hedge in silhouette
illuminates the dining room’s dim wall
and casement astragals ascend the stairs.
I read that if light could curve
it would not cast shadows, gifting us
this black and white, alongside uncertainty and haze.
Hide me under the shadow of thy wings
I am glad light travels straight, like an arrow, an arrow prayer.
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