a rising

A dialect of melancholy

haunts the wild desire path

you shaped for us.

The country I loved is hidden,

its rustic hush a

desolation.

 

The ghost of a thunderstorm

falls across

this empty tombolo.

In its edges

I can hear a rising,

primeval and strange,

flooding the well you dug

with a different brightness.

 

©Laura Sorrells 2011

all rights reserved

Done