The High Dune
I will stand on the hill
let the wind fill my gape
let it bend me towards the land
as if some hawthorn shaped
I will keep my eyes fixed, though
they'll rush like great rivers over
One to the troubled east
one towards the western borders
I will hush the white topped sea
cry out, scream for it to still
Tremble, exhale, loudly weep
from this cold comfortless hill
I may watch silhouettes fracture night
or wait for my tears to blow dry
or allow despair to transport me
as I return by dawn to lowland skies
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