Liz Rowlands

Hope

My hope
Is a feather in the wind,
Airy,
Composed of nothing
But the gentleness of your touch;
Flies high, flies low,
Hovers perilous in the calm,
Then is swept ecstatic through the skies On a breath of passion,
Contending lightness with the clouds
It tickles and teases the sun
And languishes around the moon.
Pray, don't prove fickle:
My heart is not a sun,
Nor linger too long awhile
Around the moon,
She inconstant has to wane,
Whilst here I stay
With wavering hope.