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.
Incredibly descriptive and moving. Just beautiful . . .
ReplyDeletepowerful, glynn. thank you.
ReplyDelete"a gray somberness, a silence of growing dread.."
ReplyDeletethose 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.
Feeling the heaviness in these words.
ReplyDelete