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.
Shaken Rain 