The distant echo of your voice calling me home
Across fields of new mown hay
I turn my head away, I do not want to go
Your soft whisper follows, I feel your longing
I am not ready to take up an angelic post
Snow white feathers would not suit me
Or God forbid, the other place where coal is needed
Did I slip into a place where the forked one gave me a large spade?
I love you still, alas I have much to do
All the things that frightened you, I understand
There are mountains to climb where you would not go
Your fear of the unknown kept you locked inside
There are snow slopes calling, louder than your echo
Do you now have eternity to roam?
© Anita Dawes 2021
Is this one poem, or three? What do you think?