by Dave Lewis
Mist is rising off the water.
Two swans become ghosts,
before the sun sweeps them clean.
Watching dippers under the waterfall
I confide in you,
tell you I like your dreams.
Far off, a woodpecker yaffles
as the sky gets heavy
with deepest blue.
Light is falling, soft upon you.
I’m praising dappled things
in the hush of my eyes.
Then we’re sitting by the stream.
Your beat heroic in my arms,
burning contours,
you curl like a fern,
the curve of a wing,
a sleeping star.
Dave Lewis is a writer, poet, and photographer from Cilfynydd. He read zoology at Cardiff University, taught biology in Kenya, and loves to travel. He runs the International Welsh Poetry Competition and the International Poetry Book Awards. His epic poem, Roadkill, outlines the class struggle, while his collection, Going Off Grid, warns of the dangers of digital capitalism. His latest release, Algorithm, dips into AI, war, nature, race, and love. He has published a crime thriller trilogy and the highly-acclaimed novel, The Welsh Man. He likes dogs, elephants, and real ale.
Little Leaf Literary Journal 