Monday, March 18, 2013


If she dies
Trapped under cloven stone
the sea water  will hum
in mournful  tides.

Her spirit will rise, drift
with the scent of Spring
to highland fields.

There, she will rest
graceful lady in wild  green ---
her long hair trickling
into shadow, wind and grass.

And yet, her magic will be felt
in the sway of   blossoms
prompting fish to spawn

or that  wishbone of light
looming between mountains
after a  thunderstorm.

 if she dies
as change splits the earth
she’ll be transparent
in our tears, those raindrops
on a forest leaf
and then pass into memory.

 Her pale aura clinging
To all of us  still
like rhyme to a poem
or yellow sands  
to an island of sleep.

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