49 Readings | 1 Rating

6.17

White noise of wind

sliding over wildflower-tops.

Knowing a thing by its effects.

Silent trails – an absence

of the coastal grass, or the only way

to what’s next? The blank space

from there to here – our bereft.

You stood by me; you stand.

That matters too. Letting

the image crumble. The sea

taking its edge, cliffs disappearing.

And still we stand on this new form –

the headlands, our new ground.

Breeze-whittled, salt-riddled.

Tears of rain or sea. Our common water.

Tides revealing themselves only

when they reach their end.

Posted 06/23/18
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