High Country
The tang of crowberries and storm clouds
sieved through wind and limestone
sheep’s piss and heather.
Beneath the high rock, ravens spiral,
swoop through a flying sky.
This is my land, this moment
I declare myself the very image of the One image,
magnified, upright, somewhere between
a wind-blown gnat and the rocketing reach
of a reckless God.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment