Photograph by Richard Coy Aune
Curling Vine
The water lapped against the island shore,
oar ripples swarmed to touch his snowbound feet -
the coracle, now moored under the sleet
holds the mark so faint of where her hands bore
down, an imprint of fingers not to look.
He watched the water dent the earth, the core
removed from where his heart fell through and beat
in sorrow, not in breath - we'll never meet
this way again, and yet - he hopes for more -
she's embedded deep within him. And she
inhaled the distance growing between them -
time would erode her sharpest pangs, yet be
the sweetest memories, an unbroken stem
twined to hold them, from slipping down a scree.
Annie Bien
Posted over on Freewebs
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