Tuesday, 27 December 2016

Salt Ensign, "Water Harp" 11


‘From our footsteps, mist’


From our footsteps, mist

Shaping itself into crooked eaves, walls

Damp with rotten straw


From our footsteps, rooms

We walked through, mist shaping

Itself into doors, shadow hallways


And still, voices within, hushed

Through rotten straw


To our invitation, the answer

Hidden hastily, disturbed


The fire was dead


Near the hearth

They sat with hands outstretched to the dead fire

Eyes lowered


Their skin like ours, pale, our footsteps


Mist









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