They were the departed ones

The beloved people,

Faces subtly strained,

Warped in the wanting months,

Distorted in a now thriving remorse,

Into hollowed landscapes of once hopeful vistas and fertile soils,

Now mantled in weeds,

Baked dry and stickery.

.

Meanwhile,

The boats on the bay,

Scoot through sparkling water

Bright sails,

Just beyond the skipping stones

Cast through silver bars

From havens of solitude.

.

Turn westwards, to that single point

Where the day ends in its own beginning

Against ebbing tide

And the firm grasp

Of a mid-winter storm.

.

Soon, they will gather,

Away from all this,

Following the ragged topographies

Lying along the frailest of lines,

Where distant waters

Return to the sky.

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