The Hafting Seal
Sky taiga unmirrors the steel face of a birch blade,
the knifepoint circles sun in interlace upon the granite shore.
We enter the frigid river beaming a chrysalis string,
immersed in its traceless wake, you vigil for the subtle aurora,
pale harriers quicksilver the glacial water’s skin.
You fill my hand with river to temper the weapon we emblem,
cleanse our injuries, wind, to be a release of the hafting seal.
Rain Branches
River willows lean from the sand gravel to glance
the water braids lacing on a silver plate,
the fragrance of horsemint lifts as we cross the blue island.
The wash of the waterthrush lights on the fern leaves,
sky releases the green silence you embody in the sun.
River trees take air, you leave the bank and we wade
in the sway of the depth to our waists, the indigo aura celestes
the word-stilled winds we fountain lucent in rain branches.
Across the Door
Cascade grass boats fallow a flax field in glass blue,
we witness cliffs of lions eclipse the vined arcade,
I stammer with my arms crossed to ask for your protection,
you unwind the cord sun knotted across the door of chalk.
About the Author
Living in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France, John Swain has published two collections of poetry, Ring the Sycamore Sky, and Under the Mountain Born. His most recent chapbook, From the Roof Terrace, was published in a bilingual edition.
