Back to the campfire…
It the shadows and glow of the flickering ruddy flames, he looks gaunt, grey, and emaciated as he approaches and sits down. His hair, what remains on his taut pate, is a dirty white and as withered as he — scraggly, sparse and I can see more skin than hair.
(more…)
having gone dust weary
abandoned and wander
she took her hand
in her hand and said
to herself she was sorry
dry rot and wormed
greywood splinted there
at the edge and waiting
fiftyfive steps from the
line cutting old growth
from pale sky feathered
wondering should he
come back to her again
a fog carries that
pale lost to white
steel rails to hills
raven calling
she brings children
in skirts she gathers
staring straight she
glides barefoot stride
her night velvet
whispered crushing
hand out, calling
my voice hoarse
in the fading forth
i river waiting for
flutter you feather
polishing stone for
night long coming
wrap hair ebon
undress in longing
so sacrifice to own
to you of you and
lay out autumn
there between
the river bare
to take me pale
before the blood
before
