Between the TreesThe ivy has now taken persistent hold
and the mortar seeps with cracks
through the once fine stone built
by craftsmen of long, long ago.
A stream runs through the
sunken foundations and to step
inside your feet would sink ankle depth.
Between the trees, there still is the
rustle and the smell of moss
runs rampant through my senses.
the glimmer of spirits still inhabit,
along with remains of intricate carved stone
above what was once an open fireplace,
where boiling broths of herbs
soothed as old hands, speckled
worked in fine dexterity to the plaintive
tunes of carved whistles and drum beats.
These are the sounds in my chest
and when I turn my head I see the flick
of a skirt and the intonations of old
chants that hang, imbuing this place,
not with heartache but a curious serenity.
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2008-03-11 at 10:48
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