The High Dune

I will stand on the hill let the wind fill my gape let it bend me towards the land as if some hawthorn shaped I will keep my eyes fixed, though they'll rush like great rivers over One to the troubled east one towards the western borders I will hush the white topped sea cry out, scream for it to still Tremble, exhale, loudly weep from this cold comfortless hill I may watch silhouettes fracture night or wait for my tears to blow dry or allow despair to transport me as I return by dawn to lowland skies