High North
As fingers stretch into the lesser known,
slate falls into salt,
we are stranded in an half life
of stone that rolls down ice.
Mist drifts us apart,
the rain makes us temporal,
the sky is as pale as a bloodless girl,
forcing our steps to quicken.
The North tells me,
this is a leaving on a seagull`s wing,
steps on an artic bridge,
a change of tides..,
and the rain of ending.
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2016
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