poem

Something's coming and going, dancing between the days.
It's the wind.. on a morning when the sky is grey and there's this wind that can't quite decide where to turn.
Outside the leaves rustle in little bunches, pushed against the edges of the sidewalks, drifting across the street like schizophrenic sailboats.

Iambics, let us verse it up

I'll call this: the stone hut

within a deep ravine between the hills
down, past a steep of rocks and choppy road
beyond the windy twist of curly trees
and under thicker mist and salty leaves
a little hut of stone and mortar built
by dead men's fingers digging to the bone
patted to perfect slabs of shale and stone
laid horizontal, vertical and flat
just wide enough to hold a single girl
rests up against the river rushing past.

The hut alone is nothing but a hut
stone cold and dead inanimate and grey
the rains begin to patter on the roof
the leaves crumple to wet and dampened mulch
the river raises just below the waist
just deep enough to carry leaves away.
long winter mornings batter at the sky
The hut now silent hides no bleating babe.

Not one warm breathing creature happens by
no boat caresses soft the river's flesh
only the cold and howl of empty trees
remembers who was bones beneath her dress,
now lost amongst the silent winter snow.
Is she alive and warm back in her home,
or frail and lost bones sunk buried beneath
the brown of dead and winter's dancing leaves?

And so I had a bunch of dreams last night, most of them about flying.
More iambic pentameter to come. Cheese and peace, fools