winter silhouettes
a copse of sailboat masts cut
from the dawning sky
Stone
a taste of freedom-
locked within a castle mount
above the meadows
–
afternoon heat-
careful hands
fitting stone
History
roaring bonfires burn-
shadows of ancient stones paint
the salisbury plain
–
waning daylight-
a crow stands guard
over those long dead
Lost
the late august sky-
from behind the thinning clouds
unfamiliar stars
–
the dead of night-
a pewter moon
rising
Departed
the time worn tombstones
children taken far too soon
their stories untold
–
a cardinal takes wing-
poppy blossoms
in the church yard
Lakeside
alone on the dock-
staring into the remnants
of the setting sun
–
skipping stones-
bats take wing
before the moon
Wool
rolling scottish hills
flecked with distant spots of white
between far stone walls
–
waist high grass-
curious lambs
approach the gate
Shelter
battlements of stone
rough hewn from the living rock
ever standing guard
–
howling wind
seeking refuge behind
these stone walls
Farther
standing in a queue
at the end of my patience
quite unlike this line
–
wind blown sagebrush-
the road I’m on ends
at the horizon
Stone
a taste of freedom-
locked within a castle mount
above the meadows
–
afternoon heat-
careful hands
fitting stone
History
roaring bonfires burn-
shadows of ancient stones paint
the salisbury plain
–
waning daylight-
a crow stands guard
over those long dead
Lost
the late august sky-
from behind the thinning clouds
unfamiliar stars
–
the dead of night-
a pewter moon
rising
Departed
the time worn tombstones
children taken far too soon
their stories untold
–
a cardinal takes wing-
poppy blossoms
in the church yard
Lakeside
alone on the dock-
staring into the remnants
of the setting sun
–
skipping stones-
bats take wing
before the moon
Wool
rolling scottish hills
flecked with distant spots of white
between far stone walls
–
waist high grass-
curious lambs
approach the gate
Shelter
battlements of stone
rough hewn from the living rock
ever standing guard
–
howling wind
seeking refuge behind
these stone walls
Farther
standing in a queue
at the end of my patience
quite unlike this line
–
wind blown sagebrush-
the road I’m on ends
at the horizon
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