Stand
High on a blustery jut
he flouts his fear upon a buoyant swell.
Breathes in the tang
of crowberries and storm clouds
aroma’s sieved through wind and limestone,
sheep piss and heather.
Way down on a lower sky
rock ravens spiral.
This is his land, his free blown air.
There he declares himself
the very image of this scudding world;
and he magnified and upright,
somewhere between
a twirling gnat
and a new begot God.
© a day ago
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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