Laura Potts – Windy Ridge

Oh my, on Windy Ridge: the distant burst of bells and mist

still brings a rag of laughter where the scraps of you exist.

This the pastel-crag; the cliff that carved a Chaplin-grin,

remembered ever-infant far beyond this darkened wind.

And past the winter’s dripping chin, I glance at what once

must have been and which we never noted: the scythe of sun

upon the sky; the buzzard omen-throated; the sleeve of trees

that waved goodbye; and one more death for which to die.


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