so long the trail
memories of home
sketch faint traces
against evening's sky
a manner of ride
more shift of mind
than true unravelling
measures of time
this price I've paid
my sleep in winter's
glade a fool of me
has made sighing
exhaustion creeps
to innermost folds
tugs an ancient moan
from half-sealed lips
succour must come
to one whose eyes
deceive and hopes
lead to dark straying
yet these feet go
blind without sight
sniffing nigh's terrain
goat-like on this night
only bedrock remains
as all things fall away
and sheer inexorability
sweeps me onward
YOU ARE READING
The Smell of Snow
PoetryFrom my home on a tiny island, I smell snow as it begins to fall on the mountains across Baynes Sound. A smell that goes directly up your nostrils with a slight hint of metal or ozone, a bit like refrigerant. And of course I love to confirm my sense...
