Long Way Home

Land of Cracks

They see not the whims of tidings past

nor foolish folly of a wary break.

For a light fairy whisper and a child’s cry

are not too different a bane.

But the terrible thoughts of an icy sun

do not fare well past the break of day.

Though when feathery flurries descend upon deserted ground

the bricks of wind awake with a mournful smile.

The brook of old blooms fast and far

its branches like children stretch to the ends of time.

And in that water the fairy whisper travels

to a land dried and cracked by ice.

Little do the whispers know

that soon their floating will cease to be.

For always the sun of ice will win

by simply choking them between pinched fingers.