The morning’s walk repair is stone–in–shoe disturbed at the cool wind glade:
shadow rush leaves, contrast light, flash sun.
The rain worn paper notice, on the silver slatter–down kiosk commands us to walk the mere of ice,
blind white, blotch pools, slow earth.
But I know it will fail my doubt; I take the grass and boulder soaring path, walking up the two bend valley,
watching down on faith belief crash–drown.
images music poetry prose contents podcast products ©
Peered The Mere Of Ice Northumberland Intruder Alert To Let The ‘A’ Rush Server Room A Mary Car… Garden Flock State album
poem
this archive is hosted by arts & ego © 1978–2024 dylan harris