There is blood in friendship,
it irrigates gardens,
distills in the colours of sunsets,
pours like nectar from the honeysuckle
or rain from storm clouds.
Whispered voices blow in blue winds,
shaking the roses, and petals fall
with the clang of bronze,
but the sea still laps the shore
in the sweet salt breath of the tides,
and the moon’s hand
strokes the waves,
gentle as a mother,
kissing her child’s hair.