Turning Down The Linen

The lost sunrise, rare coin, I now lament.

So too, its flaming slide at end of day.

I can’t escape my farm girl’s sentience.

Unleash me over those fields of fresh mown hay,

Not here, where brick and steel climb up the sky,

Where wren and hawk have flown a quick retreat.

Gray smoke and stacks alike tarnish surprise,

Over a city that rumbles beneath my feet,

That busy beast that swallows every sound.

With clotted breath to water’s edge I’m drawn

Where stars appear from out the black surround.

Like fields of wheat, waves undulate in song.

And then there’s you with power to part the night.

You turn the linens down and dim the lights.

I'm pounding the pentameter for d'Verse, the poet's pub, a top destination for poets worldwide to meet and share their work.  

The challenge here from Ingrid  is to write a poem in the heartbeat of iambic pentameter. da-dum, da, dum, da-dum,da-dum. 

And then order a drink!