The meadow

The meadow's lark tries in secret
The meadow's lark flies in secret
The meadow's lark lies in secret
The meadow's lark cries in secret
The meadow's lark dies in secret

verdant scene

a thrust through the thick bush
a garden replete with a lucious covering
a pierce and swing, unlocking the door
gateway of vine, gently, loudly, quietly yielding

stepping in green tinged light
carefully treading the lilies
lilies not for graves but offerings
wild sylvester sprinkled in the gaps

heaving, bleeding, the pause is untrusted
the chase has been ruthless
rustling leaves and cracking branches
trembling respite breaks again

new sweat drips down the brow
conscious stillness and tempered focus
the sounds flow in an outward march
the secret dome mutes the sigh

clear water mirrors a blinding sun
a safer rest sinks in with each drink
the sweat rolls down the chin and falls
a thundering echo booms through the wood

the heart flits in exasperation
the gaping hole, a fount of blood
air is for naught, light is for naught
every drop of life feeds the lilies