The Peak He left the peak, disheartened. He’d come often in his youth, When the sun would beam leafy green Through the ferns; would hang in the sky Like a yolk. Off the rotting pole ravens would fly, Climbing, vanishing into the clouds, Fetching tomorrow. He left the peak, satisfied. He’d come frequently, turning over his daylight When rain would soak on verdant ferns; Clouds like whites would sag in the sky. To the rotting pole, ravens returned, circling, Dropping from the clouds, Retching yesterday. As he left, the sand beneath, Was settled firmly upon the beach.
The Peak
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