Sunday, May 20, 2012

The Way to the Hill

My feet stumble along a road
cobblestoned in quarried granite
and recycled marble; I trip over
the back of a god, former. Drops
of sweat, blood, sweaty blood
fall, soon matted into dust, a
dried remembrance of things past,
things lost but brilliant for a time
flashes of color amid
a gray somberness, a silence
of growing dread, a silence
of condemnation.
The way to the hill is paved
with hot granite, melting marble,
stones burning as they cry out.

Photograph: Mercantour by Michel Bousquet via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission. 


Martha J. M. Orlando said...

Incredibly descriptive and moving. Just beautiful . . .

diana said...

powerful, glynn. thank you.

nance said...

"a gray somberness, a silence of growing dread.."

those words remind me of the atmosphere before a tornado.

i see some of the sharp, rough stone has been taken and used to form a path through the middle of it.

S. Etole said...

Feeling the heaviness in these words.