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land awakens
berry blue sky
once the colour
of pellets or ore
on the warm
burgundy slag
and the oil of cresote

grasses hush dry
from winter
preserved from
another year
and season

I remember the sound
of rain arriving in
breezes and wind
whispering in its
spirit voices
cold on my forehead
collecting in my brows
and eyelashs

the dark growing darker
in the huddled tamarack
beneath the sculpted

the gravel road shinning
and the bike tires
rolling over stones
to home

Style / type: 
Free verse
Editing stage: 


Holding my own....

author comment

Another piece that just brings images into your head and runs like a movie scene, you can almost smell the scents of this.

"The perfect woman perpetrates literature as she does a small sin: as an experiment, in passing, to see if anybody notices it - and to makes sure that somebody does." - Nietzsche

and that you notice such detailing is a pleasure
in reading your comments

describe things for decription and never then
at this write in a rather noisy air exchanger
and others tapping away to think of smells
but yes its true how did I miss that?

author comment
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