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
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
to post a comment