"hillside" poems
The road seen, then not seen, the hillside hiding
then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you as if leaving you
to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up,
when you thought you would fall, and the way forward
always in the end the way that you came, the way
that you followed, the way that carried you into your future,
that brought you to this place, no matter that it sometimes
took your promise from you, no matter that it always
had to break your heart along the way, the sense
of having walked from far inside yourself out into the revelation,
to have risked yourself for something that seemed
to stand both inside you and far beyond you,
that called you back in the end to the only road
you could follow, walking as you did, in your
rags of love and speaking in the voice
that by night, became a prayer for safe arrival…
by: David Whyte
excerpt from SANTIAGO
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
she is outspoken and bold
bold like the sun
bolder than an army of boulders
falling from a hillside
she is an avalanche
when there is nowhere left to run
she is despised by some
and others wish to fill her
with some old fashioned whisky
i am sanctified by her ways
and returned to my former glory
as this poem has tasted far better days
she is a morning glory
her eyes are like the petals of a flower
she is the Wordsworth of the decade
a wordsmith dancing in her own decay
i am essentially a target
a lost projectile in the arrow's path
she has coaxed me back to sanity
with her sardonic gestures
and her sarcastic use of wit
i am a nitwit she said
so i laugh and pick the flowers from her hair
slowly and soporifically
i am seaweed adrift in her bonnet
sandpaper scattered along the shoreline
remove the blind spectacles
and eat the lines i’ve written
a poem is just a candle anyway
to spray the eyes of infinity with lightning
mars is retrograde regardless
so i’ll just sit here and pretend
that i’m not too much of a target for her beauty
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
*what forests are those we pass,
blazing along the railway tracks,
a tree bloom of still cranes,
stream black of ******* bane,
stench of dead city rubble,
factories of rusted cast metal,
distant cotton twilight skies,
sun slide across a bunch of wires,
passing tunnels echo
lonely platforms, frantic gecko,
looming hillside,
crackle dry wood fire,
a god barred in lock&key,
blink glimpse of the sea
one rush of vision,
pebble fling at frisson,
metal-crunch rhythm,
grind music sublime,
spark, grunt, grate,
we arrive, we dissipate...*
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
The tide collects it all by morning;
The drama and the ***** napalmed across the path.
The scenes at second warning for most had been swept away
Before they wiped the sand from their shoes.
Empty cans of Dutch and Tuborg slouched on the dunes
Are tight-lipped about the Velvet Strand's secret ecosystem;
An underground microcosm;
A peripheral cluster of seething emotions drowned.
Memories of those years - although some expired,
The vestiges take pride of place - hold a cosmic clump of smells,
Tastes, firsts, goosebumps, hangovers, and ends.
I never before understood what I was holding on to.
Winters down in the shelters nearly killed us but we
Huddled through the cold, lit cheap firelogs and
Found our oblivion. It didn't take much for me to develop
A stagger - tolerance for a lot of things was learned later.
I narrowly recall my first taste of poor judgement and
Hazy-headed stargazing. Six cans of Stonehouse
Dry cider - most of which ended up on the hillside -
Was a ridiculous endeavour that will always be sublime.
At the heart of it, I did it to impress a girl;
The one every boy has or has had that sticks;
Who holds your firsts and your hands and makes
Things simple if only for her complexity;
The one that never fails to bring upon digression when
Pens are involved. Revisiting reminiscence on a jarring note,
I think of my Junior Cert exams and a cross-dressed man
Exposing himself to two uniformed boys behind the public toilets.
This one doesn't stir the joy of the others.
This one I wish would dissolve;
An ugly, awkward blotch on a childhood.
Luckily fondness trumps disgust when recalling that place
Because of sunrises and sunsets absorbed from the roof.
The Summers spent jumping the gap and drowning in the
Heat of the sun were everything.
The fugitive sand between our toes and under finger nails
Became an accepted nuisance, a part of the territory;
A lingering grain or two to drag you back.
I miss waking up with the smell of last night's faded fire.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
Isn’t is strange how we notice things when it is too late?
This is probably the last time that all of us will be in the car together. There will be no more midnight drives from hillside theatres. No more 2am dinner plans at kerbey lane.
This is the first time that I have noticed that you twirl your hair when you drive. My eyes have shifted from cityscapes flying across backseat windows to watching you wrap your hair around your finger.
It’s not slow and flirtatious, but quick and desparate, as if you're trying to distract yourself from the fact that we are growing up. It’s making me anxious, but I can’t look away.
This is the first time that I noticed the change in our silence. We are driving down nearly empty highways, and we are leaving behind our time. We are no longer laughing, and this silence doesn’t feel like it usually does. For once, none of us have anything to say. Or maybe, we know that there is not enough time to say all of the things that we should and want to say.
This is when I noticed how much I love driving down empty highways at midnight. Everything is slow, there is no rush, and, for once, there are no expectations of me.
I am finally, truly noticing that there will never be enough time to tell you all that I love you,
to hear you talk about science,
to hear about your travels,
to talk to you about your struggles,
to drive, and laugh, and cry with you,
to watch you twirl you hair.
Now, we have grown up, and our distances will strain our years of friendships,
and there will never be enough time with you.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
Loneliness is a pain,
Not the pain of a knife cutting through skin, sinews, muscles,and drawing blood.
Not the pain of a tooth in your mouth throbbing and sending shocks of horrors through highways of swollen nerves..
Not a fatal pain of a dying cell being devoured by a cancerous growth that thrives on the death and the pain of the very cells that produces its been.
Not the pain of the prisoner s body been tortured by men who see no wrong or feel no shame as they insert sharp hot instruments into natural and man made orifices in their captives helpless, hopeless bodies.
Not the pain of age as the body's functions start their natural march towards unreliability , Hips, knees knuckles, elbows and all the other joints as they begin to slowly dry up and rub against each other like stones rolling down a hillside.
Not the pain of hearts slowing, livers hardening,lungs wheezing like ripped accordians bellows .
Not the pain of childbirth.
Not the pain of accidents that show no fairness to the person in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Not the pain of self inflicted wounds that can fool you into thinking that that pain is the answer to your problems.
Not the pain of the young healthy times when the body, and mind could accept it and overcome it
Not the pain of hunger or thirst.
Loneliness is the pain of the soul .
Loneliness is the pain of dreams that are dreamt when your asleep and when you'r awake.
Loneliness is the pain of memories . Some half forgotten some that are so clear you could almost touch them.
Some you'd rather forget.
Some you would spend the rest of your life reliving over and over again.
Loneliness is the pain that at times can be part relieved momentarily through the bottom of a whiskey bottle or a point of a syringe filled with a concoction of juices from plants poisonous to both the body and the soul.
Loneliness can never be cured by earthly things. Loneliness is a pain that can only find peace through a kinderd spirit.
Pat Rooney 2013
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
Standing on the hillside is a rustic yellow cottage,
Rusty yellow staining from the steel dust of the trains.
Passing, rushing carriages that crisscross by the hour,
The ten o clock from Frankston meets the City train detained.
Golden light of sunrise in the calm of early morning
Golden light reflected on the rusty cottage roof,
Puffing at his briar and sitting at the doorstep
Old Grandpa drinks the peacefulness whilst stroking cat aloof.
Bacon smells a-beckoning from coal range fires a-glowering
Delicious tang of coffee from my Granma’s breakfast fare,
The clattering of silver wheels as silver rails reverberate
Sings the music of the morning with not a trace of care.
Memories from yesteryear I treasure on reflection,
Memories, a little boy, recalled from times secure.
Memories of cuddles in the ***** of my Grandma
And the scent of plum tobacco giving Grandpa’s pipe allure.
Perhaps a trick of memory, perhaps my passing fancy
But I clearly recall a sign above the kitchen door,
A simple sign of welcome with a sense of real belonging
In the gentle name of “Sunrise” to warm the heart galore.
Marshalg
In memory of my dear Nan and Pop Cummings @ Mordialloc by the bay.
23 April 2013
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
All of the moves on a
chessboard of which
the permutations are
infinite, have been
witnessed at Camp-
Nou by the G.O.A.T.
Upon hillside tracks
and mountain passes
where herds pasture
on unsure footings at
cliffs edge in all types
of weather is the Goat.
Think of a goalkeeper
waiting for an indirect
free out of vision from
behind a wall of players,
imagine the thoughts-----
between predator & prey.
................
|˚ |
| |
Tribute to Lionel Messi
Barcelona on his 7th Balon D'or.
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 6:20 AM UTC
Mysterious, mist-kissed hills dismiss my dismal disdain
For Life’s strivings in the ivy wired mire.
Budding blossoms embrace my burgeoning bliss-filled *****
As my soul soars into the seething skies.
My wings are beating with breathless wonder,
My imagination sends me to a destination
Beyond discrimination, defying appellation,
But not exclamation, at this elevation.
Smooth pools of cool blue hue contrast with cliffs
That overhang the huddled houses
Of the hillside village
On the way to who knows where.
The mists are shifting, ever drifting
Hiding everything
Except the mountain tops.
A new dimension might await us
Always moving as
Our journey never stops.
Paul Butters
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
There she stood. Beautiful. Perfect. As I looked at her she faded away. Not because I was forgetting her, but because she had forgotten me.
When the world turns. The days changes. Night's dark veil is pierced by the spear of oncoming daylight. Day reigns triumphant until the darkness arrives, drowning out the light. This endless cycle goes on. My heart beats on.
The battles never cease. The war knows no end. But her love knew an end. Without her love, the days seem shorter and the nights drag on.
The darkness chokes the light faster than before. The daylight whimpers behind a shield of clouds and rain, Spring drags on. Summer drags on. Fall drags on. Winter drags on. The world drags on. My heart drags on. Missing her. Loving her. Crying for her.
The day reminds me of the joy I do not have. The night drowns me with its cool touch. How much longer until the night lasts forever? When will the daylight become a lie I tell my children before they go to bed?
Rocks tumble down the hillside of my face. They turn to dust, blowing away in the breeze. The memories of those boulders sting worse than the quake itself. The avalanche of grief in my heart floods any semblance of normality.
Life has always found a way to go on. But not for my internal purgatory. My self hating prison of darkness. As the imperfect man waits for heaven or hell, so does my heart wait for judgment.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
tighten your tanned arm around my waist
put your thumb inside my bottom lip
tell me how pretty i look in a dress
even more with it on the floor
and with a sun-dripping smile
i will bloom beneath the ripened lust
that seeps from your secret gaze
like a blazing hillside of orange poppies
shifting towards you in the soft wind
waiting to be crushed
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 9:01 PM UTC
The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley...
No kitchens on the run, no striking camp...
We moved quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest lay behind ditches with the *****
A people hardly marching... on the hike...
We found new tactics happening each day:
We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until... on Vinegar Hill... the final conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August... the barley grew up out of our grave.
5.9k
I buried an angel on top of the hill
Under the magnolia tree
Her wings are long since silent
But she still means the world to me
The magnolia's flowers cover her grave
Decorated in majestic white
She said the scent was Heaven's perfume
And their smell was pure delight
I was married to this angel for forty-one years
Before Heaven called her away
I knew she had to leave this world
Even though I begged her to stay
I know that my loss is Heaven's gain
I guess they were one angel short
I know they wouldn't have taken her away
Unless it was their last resort
Sometimes when I start missing her
I can't wait 'til the magnolias bloom
We can sit and talk for hours
While smelling their sweet perfume
She said, "This is as close to Heaven
as anyone could ever be"
So I buried her on that hillside
Underneath the magnolia tree
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 2:32 PM UTC
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky,
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
And the people in the houses
All went to the university,
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and lawyers,
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.
And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 9:23 AM UTC
Tempestuous longings from behind the screen of life’s moving picture
You stare back at me, in a glimmering, shimmering afterthought
Laid low by foregoing passion
In a moment’s torrid glimpse from our hollow reflections
Fragrant evenings during seasons of filming
Solemnly captured and revised then experienced
The all encompassing struggle with context and setting
Abides a steely night, in the rustle of autumn branches
Requiem for an unremitting beloved!
Sung in the valley between piercing peaks of sorrow
She floats through the scene as distinct aura and vague essence
An embrace from the trail of vapors and misspent gestures
All emanating from a glass of cider beneath nostrils
Gracefully, you embank on the wind of time’s shadow
And nudge my cheek with impetus and vigor
Lashing out at my skin in ambivalent revelry
As if my follicles were vacuous caverns
Catching the callous moments which flutter the ***** of hillside tents
The unearthly gusts of banality extinguish the projector’s gleam
While nature embodies your beauty furthermore
Toward the end of the pathway
And the credits of the film
And the allegro of the score
And the solitude of eternity
And the rustling of the branches
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:09 AM UTC
I think when I first saw you,
I swallowed you like my anti depressant pills,
and you settled into my stomach.
When I first saw you,
A thousand seconds in time wrapped themselves in silk,
And became cocoons of memories.
Turning into butterflies,
they fly around in my chest.
When I see your smile,
when I hear your laugh,
when I remember the stars in your eyes.
When I first saw you,
I wanted to breathe in all of the air of the earth.
Because you...
You took my breath away.
When I first saw you,
I wanted to live.
For the first time in my life..
I wanted to live.
But minutes turned to seconds on our pocket watches,
and you sat on the hillside of my insides with a gun.
You sat there and shot down all my butterflies.
And now..
I don't want to live.
And I don't want to love.
I want to die.
You took love from me.
You stamped at it with your feet like cigarette ashes but I'm still burning.
You grabbed me by my throat and whispered,
"I love you."
And as you left me there dying,
with my last breath I apologized for getting blood on your coat.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
They say lots of things about love,
They make it seem it is the ultimate desire,
Wanton and wilder than the known universe,
An cataclysmic explosion of two personalities,
Born separate, reborn together,
And yet...
I have loved worse men,
And lost better women than I deserve,
And now my convex chest is as vast and devastated as abbey ruins,
sanctuary,
sacred,
crooked,
ruined,
beautiful,
still here,
After hundreds of years.
Maybe I will live on in my memories,
For there are graveyards in my bones,
Eulogies imprinted on my arteries,
Long lost love letters scarred on my very marrow
For those that I drowned,
And those I saved.
My faith is a moorland hillside war memorial,
An obelisk to reach the very gods,
Your love is but a squall,
My hope is a trickle, a stream, a reservoir, in the deepest steepest canyon and Valley,
Your love is but a rain drop,
My clarity is at the bottom of a whiskey bottle,
Your love is but an ice cube.
Do not ask me brazenly to die for you,
When ******* me is your finest hour,
And I am but a pleasure boat ride for your masculinity to take a trip in,
We are not divine here;
My expectations are as low as your esteem:
A water you paddle in, a toe dipped perhaps,
but you wouldn't swim through, dare to at least,
And yet,
I am a rushing beautiful rainbow of a waterfall on a sunburn induced day,
The haze in the corner of your eye,
When you begin to question,
"is this too good to be true?".
Yes.
We are all but fallacies.
Dip your fingers and cross yourself,
As you wish for clemency.
But still,
Be still,
And know,
That,
I am,
God.
Am I?
Or am I just divine on your tongue?
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC
*I am sorry for all I caused you.
I saw you sink in my eyes and I lost you.
Thought it cost you,
To see me breathe in broken souls,
Never knew about the love I sold.
I ripped up all the truths in my head,
Wished me dead in a bed
Where I bled,
And the wind spoke.
All the secrets that I had inside me
Beat on the doors till they shattered and the lock broke,
I always felt like a flower on a hillside,
Mercy to the wind and you till I
finally died.
The sun set in my throat,
It rained in my eyes,
I had no where to go.
I am sorry that my anger left stains on your skin.
But you cut me with the lies you told,
And you broke me with things that we never could have been.
I sinned,
Serpents sliding down my cheeks.
When I speak,
Its like the tide is in my mouth,
The waves moving south until they're gone.
We build up our bodies,
Broken promises,
And whispers we hear in our head.
The foundation we've set is shaking,
It can't handle us breaking,
And can't handle us faking so tell the truth.
I have never lied to you.
But you took the love I gave and you threw it.
I never knew how my half a heart craved your hand but now I do.
You are like the greatest poison.
Moving through my own veins with no noise and,
My hands shake wothout my fix,
But you can't fix me,
Its true.
I need you to stay here now,
While I fly away,
Leaving you standing on the ground,
Don't frown,
You never needed me,
With concieded tragedy
Trembling from your lips.
And I know you can feel it,
Can taste materiality when you kiss.
My head is crashing,
My body thrashing
on the ground till its blue,
I'm not saying that I want to leave,
I'm just saying that you can't love me like I need.
I know it might be hard
But I'm looking so far
And all I can see is my tears.
How am I supposed to live this way?
Waiting day by day
For you to reveal all my fears.
You know I hate my future,
As much as I hate your present suture
You're letting dive into your heart.
I don't know how to start,
In a world where you're my world
But I'm not yours.
I say that I will leave and close the door,
Leave it a crack,
So I can see your light in the dark,
And find my way back.
All I asked of you was your hand,
Press it to my chest,
I know you can.
You make me resent all the words that I've said,
Went through your ears,
Passed by your brain and out your head.
You said,
You don't know how to help me,
I'm not the titanic that's sinking,
Just a person that's wishing,
that someone had taught me to swim.
I know you don't get me,
Don't understand what my head thinks,
Well darling that makes two.*
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
shall we let
the morning glories sing
praises from the hymns
of lovebirds
who once counted the holes in the ground
at the bottom of a hill
(n.n.)
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
I buried an angel, on top of the hill
Under the magnolia tree
Her wings are long since silent
But she still means the world to me
The magnolia's flowers, cover her grave
Decorated in majestic white
She said the scent was Heaven's perfume
And their smell was pure delight
I was married to this angel for 41 years
Before Heaven called her away
I knew she had to leave this world
Even tho I begged her to stay
I know that my loss, is Heaven's gain
I guess they were one angel short
I know they wouldn't have taken her
Unless it was the last resort
Sometimes when I start missing her
I can't wait til the magnolias bloom
We can sit and talk for hours
While smelling their sweet perfume
She said this is as close to Heaven
As anyone could ever be
So I buried her on the hillside
Under that magnolia tree
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 4:18 PM UTC
*The red light of the sun
Slowly descending
The sky is all I see
It’s never ending
We could fly
You and I
On a cloud
Music on the hillside
Piano in a villa over there
Violin below
Fireworks above
A beat – a beating heart
Someone begins to sing
The red light of the sun
Slowly descending
The sky is all I see
It’s never ending
We could fly
You and I
On a cloud
Is this place real
The ocean below
The red sky above
The music
Romance on the wind.
Sing with me
The wind plays with the leaves
The weather turns colder
But as long as we believe
Love doesn’t get older
We could fly
You and I
On a cloud
Only after one leaves
Does this place become real
A crown jewel midst a rocky cliff
A place so beautiful its
Memory etches itself into your soul
Food to die for
Drinks to fight for…
On a journey of the heart
There’s so much to see
When the sky is dark
You’ll be right here
Right here with me
Good morning I vow*
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
graceful
as the orient
but yet
a western plant
aloes
are
indigenous
to the desert's
rock and sand
delicate
white flowers
or
bold red
on slender stems
the flaming
torches
burning
bring
hummingbirds
to them
from the tiny
Aloe Pepe
to the mighty
Century
those plants
upon a hillside
are there
for all
to
see
there's the wierd
Octopus Aloe
small leafy plants appeal
one type of
Aloaceae
has a pulp which
soothes
and
heals
in my father's
cactus garden
he has
all types to show
please sit in my
Sanctuary
where
the
lovely
aloes grow
SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/19/2016
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
If tires of trees I seek again mankind,
Well I know where to hie me—in the dawn,
To a slope where the cattle keep the lawn.
There amid loggin juniper reclined,
Myself unseen, I see in white defined
Far off the homes of men, and farther still,
The graves of men on an opposing hill,
Living or dead, whichever are to mind.
And if by noon I have too much of these,
I have but to turn on my arm, and lo,
The sun-burned hillside sets my face aglow,
My breathing shakes the bluet like a breeze,
I smell the earth, I smell the bruisèd plant,
I look into the crater of the ant.
3.2k
A POSEY OF SHEEP
She a butterfly
in her little blue dress
chasing butterflies
blowing bubbles after them.
Butterflies and bubbles
skitter here and there.
Her "flying flowers"
as she names them.
One b one by one she
picks wildflowers.
They blossom in her fist
losing more than she collects.
I take the ribbon from her hair
tie them tightly in place.
"I have a garden
in my hand!"
She runs and runs and runs
as only a little girl can
joy and speed
fused together in her.
And when she returns
her petals have all gone.
She holds only stalks
in her hand
flowerless flowers.
"Shhhhh!" I shush her sobbing.
"Look what you have found!"
And I let perspective
take a hand/
On each stalk now
a sheep replaces petals.
The sheep unaware that they
have become surreal flowers
only existing
at a certain angle.
Who cares if they are not real.
It's the seeing that matters.
She holds a posey
of sheep.
I tell her they are
flowers made of magic.
On the far away hillside
sheep still safely graze.
And when she moves and
finds them "GONE!"
I reposition her and
there they are.
"Hold still!" I tell her
and pick each sheep
pocket them
mind them for her.
Happy once again she
runs and runs and runs
clutching her precious stalks
in a tiny hand.
All her imaginary sheep
tucked up in her mind
possibly for ever
if not
longer.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC
A cool and close mist
Hangs over the highland shrubs and trees
Wild and tall grasses bend heavy
Laden with the chill dew
of a perpetually hidden dawn
10 lifetimes of experiences
Have I gathered since I entered here
I feel it was but a few hours ago
Though I have not seen the sun
Nor has the darkness of night
Yet begun to creep into these woods
Maybe from a dream or perhaps
I passed it earlier this strange house
A ***** place with slanted roof and chimney
Sticking out of the earth in such a way
That it appeared to be a natural growth
I feel as though it is so very familiar
Though I cannot say why
Or why no matter the direction I turn
Or for how long I walk
I come unto its doorstep again and again
In my mind it has replaced my own home
If ever I did have another
And whoever might have been waiting there
I have long since forgotten
Yet when I reach this house
Time and time again
I cannot muster the courage to reach out
To take hold of the handle and turn it
To enter in to that abode
And here I come again
I see it emerge out of the gentle fog
Comfortably nestled on a hillside
I stand for a moment at the gate
The walk through it and up the long path
Interspersed with a step or two here and there
As it turned inwards and outwards
Ascending the hill into the home’s entrance
In a moment I stood at the door yet again
Hand half outstretched towards the ****
I placed my hand upon it
Feeling the cool of brass
Yet the warmth of something else
Something half remembered from youth
From years long since entwined with dreams
I turned the **** gently
Not yet feeling the click of the lock
I felt a fresh wind at my back
And I rather spontaneously
Wrenched my hand and wrist
All the way to the right
I could feel the weight of the door
Unhindered by any lock or stop
And I pushed it open
That mighty wooden thing
And was greeted by a deepening night
Full of countless radiant stars.
Oct 18, 2023
Oct 18, 2023 at 4:09 PM UTC