concurrent

due to total absence of muse *sigh – i’m still plugging away at this one – here’s the latest revision …

it never was like that, more

how smooth river slid around her waist
steadying impressive rush

thigh to wing

while she, courting swell and web,
caressed supernatural

feathers

penned immortality, downed throaty
groan, kick and scream alive

float in thrash and foam

not so much inhuman as beyond her
old man’s tired shallows

previous re-write, not in stone – just hoping for some clarity …

It never was like that, more

how the river slid around pale waist
steadying impressive rush

wing to thigh

while she, courting swell and web,
caressed supernatural

feathers in such dreaming

extravagantly white, sky-wild on her.

Not so much inhuman
as beyond

an old man’s comprehension.

currently …

i’m sorry, i’ve had cold after cold and now another one .. eerrgghh! am exhausted, please forgive … anyhow try this … it may be rubbish, but i’ve always admired something about Leda and you have to admit, swans are gorgeous lol ….

Leda’s popping dreams and bubbles of restraint;
she’s close, by water’s choice, to the wild charisma,
how he makes her kick-and-scream alive,
feathers in her throaty groan
and god, the perfect catch, between pale thighs.

That old man would claim her later, unaware
of how the river’s thrash and foam
taunted willow, cloning sorrow’s
spineless grace – a net to snare more misery
then gloat about misfortune’s violation

of her nature, clutching, biting moss for more
of that, so deep inside the catacombs of sleep.