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


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