A Windy Edge
It runs low off the moors,
when it gets to this blustering brink,
it shoves and ropes, it punches eyes.
When it sweeps this ledge
it bites like a viper, it's voice
forged in whirlpools of chaos.
My legs tremble in a corkscrew tug of war.
Gust-mobed clouds crush molecules of fear.
Rain hacks and mauls.
This raw wind has me by the throat;
now all the non-rooted must sink or float,
or be delivered down to the deep dale
and a more sheltering sky.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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