Cling
Head buried beneath the wind,
hung, grasping an overhang,
hug the thin bones of wiry tussocks.
At the moor's edge
where the cliff-drop, gnaws at the sky,
a jutting ledge raises it hackles,
fingers scrabble, skinned toes curl
within creaking jawed boots
Turn an ankle here,
and you may fall
unleashed
to die somewhere.
Cling!
Laugh at yourself.
Do not enter your mind,
where your whipped dog cowers.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2023
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