Again, on our
pilgrimage to the
top, we are
mixed up in the
swirl, the gully curled
like a cat below,
a dandelion clock of
dust dancing,
a foggy wind
prancing across the height
shoving us sideways
with the
cloud-elephant overhead —
no thoughts of
suicide; a dead possum
turns out to be a
wedge of weathered wood:
the cold rain
hammers down, hammers down,
scarred like us, glossy as a coffin, tethered to
the mountainside.
great lines Robbie adding up to a haunting poem
ReplyDeleteThank you Gail. :)
ReplyDeleteGlossy as a coffin, made me feel that smooth hard surface.
ReplyDeleteThis line popped into my head as I was writing out the last line on the second draft. Funny how that happens.
DeleteWhat a moody, wonderful poem.
ReplyDeleteThanks Lisa.
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