A certain shift and pull of winter grass
against the wind reveals a picket fence
splintered with rot and age. A few yards hence,
beyond a rise where most walkers might pass
with little notice, lay foundation stones,
porous and etched by lichen, red and green.
Upon investigation may be seen
small artifacts: pottery. Flatware. Bones.
Still further on, curtained by waist-high weeds,
a chassis sits, its struts latticed with rust.
An elevation that was once a road
fronts desolation now. In spring the seeds
of dandelions blizzard the field, explode
in yellow riot. Now there's only dust.
1 comment:
After writing this poem, I realized it was representative of a theme I keep coming back to, without planning to do so--abandoned, forsaken places. Something about them just speaks to me, apparently, either as metaphor, or as visual stimulus, or something deeper I can't put my finger on.
Anyway, I created a new label for such poems, Forsaken Places. Some of the poems I categorized previously as horror I've re-sorted under this heading; others were both horrific AND about forsaken places, so I added one label to the other. Some that were purely metaphorical and under the "uncategorized" label I've also put here. So just because it says "Forsaken Place" doesn't mean it's NOT metaphorical.
Nor does it mean, necessarily, that I'm fully consciously aware of WHAT it means. :) The image comes, I write it, the meaning makes itself clear later...maybe. Anyway, I've got a new theme, I discovered, so there you go.
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