She Talks To Me Sometimes

She talks to me sometimes at four in the morn,
Soft moans and low whispers in slumbering flight.
Her eyes, like butterfly wings on chaotic course
that, if I will hard, just might
Fly her back to me at dawn.

I tenderly rest on her brow with my fingertips,
Calming her turbulence, settling her squalls.
My touch moves to steady her eyes
And, as would a beacon of morning light, calls
Her down to land on cotton slips.

Simon Mayor