Morning Surrender Poem by Bengt O Björklund

This soft morning surrender I flow,
with a rolling of blistering suns,
I carry with tall trees and the dying
of winds across the fleshy grass.

Pale bones of history and summers
where once wooden flutes grinned
out of groins with whispered laughter
slow talk’s to the descending sea.

Fierce is the fire that feeds
on the undying sainthood of salt
with bare arms in cloth
like weather mills still at high noon.

Sureties are crusty words on waves
rolling sand to the sun baked shore
ringing with the halo of a cat’s smile
folded under water tussled dreams.