what belonged there

gorse-bush, dogwood
the wind of never-winter

the crude-made
mask of isolation

thus she lies there

foraging the plumes
of river silt
slit red

the hue of a grieving

and so the owl mends his
wings towards morning

dark as the alchemist’s bowl

who will follow her singing
into the waters    ?
we burn for those that
leave us

sweet one, trust
mountain   trust

let the earth have you -Smakka–bagms


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