This Forgotten Place
Where lost and restless souls
come to paint themselves
Ochre, the red centre
and dance under a silent star
Sun Worship
Draws out the poison
We, the parchment
Elemental
Reuse, rebuild – and wait
Until air thick, pregnant
a scent on the wind
the rain is coming –
Pours like holy water
Over sin
The earth’s skin
We re-hydrate
Fill out our limbs
and soak the brain
Water becomes
Uncounted, without passing
The change.
They came in two-
A lilac-torie and a blue
Siblings
Frightened little things
with chopped whiskers.
While we’re on a roll
and the prose flows
I am reminded of old poems
I wrote in my teens
Awkward, not particularly good
but of course, at the time
I thought they were magnificent
and read them loudly, proudly
to anyone with an ear
But it troubles me-
I have to wonder, now
will I feel the same
about these words spilling out?
will I cringe as I read
what I presently believe
to be good?