Poetry by K S Moore: Gilt

Gilt

Phrixus and Helle

He felt her hand turn blue:
part cold, part call of the sea,
watched her dress tulip up
around her, gaudy shroud.

Heaven poured its light
into the tips of darting waves,
chased her soul to an
underlife that took her name.

To ride gold
is to
feel air
                      swallow up
memories.

To land at the heart
of a new country
cuts
home from the past,
fleece from the ram.

Let it gilt another’s shoulders.