Her lips are curved
as if the edges are weighted
with imaginary strings.....
And the colour has drained from her eyes.
And the water has leaked from her skin.
And the spirit has fled from her voice.
Her stately stance is stooped
and forever clutching.
Her gaze darts about as if a camera
swirls about her shadow ...
I know this place.
I smell it's creeping breath
and hear it's whips, cracking.
I remember the climb, the muddied eyes,
the sting in my words. I remember
the day my soldiers fled
and the night I lost my way.
I know this place from long ago
tho no home have it here anymore.
Will you wind, blow love from the west
to rest upon our mountaintop
to pause at the feet of a friend
with lovers who are sleeping
to conjure up a trick or two
and bring her spirit home.