Where once the reeded pond
Spun into the mud screws,
Now the dry dust ghost wind blows
Through the dead fish eye;
Where once the heron through its shallows
Pushed through the green weed hairs,
Now the brackish roots lay in a corded decay.
Invisible, its water level once with colored lid,
Now latched into a clay bed void;
Stones, once submerged, now zig-zagged
Into earthen channels;
There shall be wildlife parched, and the
Milk wood drought in the dry womb dirt;
Carved birds blunt into kindled nests.
Shall there be rain, or outlawed into a dumb-down
Trickle, a naked fall into the pastures of worms;
They woke to a hearing in a priested morn
With water praying and the speckled drops;
A reeded pond bent over like a beggar,
Putting moisture into its dry clay cup; where
The rain runs, you shall push out your shores.
Copyright © 11/03/2019 lance sheridan®