DRAUGHT

O restorative draught
of emptiness you fill
the pitcher of my being
with the solemn passion
of the owl. You offer
me gardens soft as feathers
where i can bury my weariness
which shines like the mane
of some fearless brunette.
You show me flowers as i sip
your melody which has all
the abundance of sighing
honey. I am not tempted
by the colours that
advertising agents use to
sprinkle the night. I bow
down and simper like a leaf
blown into the bay.