Cling
At the moor's edge
where the cliff-drop gnaws the wind
and a jutting ledge raises it hackles,
fingers scrabble, skinned toes curl
within stiff-jawed boots.
Turn an ankle here,
and you may fall
unleashed
to die somewhere
out of sight.
Do not enter your mind here
in that place
where a whipped dog cowers.
Cling,
rope yourself to the sky -
Growl.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment