The Mere Of Ice

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.