Drift

my heels clack,

washboard thimble rasps

scratching brashly

on the frost scrubbed cobbles,

later, after the snow has flown

we become mute, entranced

listening intently

to the dumbed weight of quiet

throughout the lanes,

senses are forced taught, bleached and

distilled by the biting air

that squeezes and threatens

our pinched lives,

we suffocate under this thin pallor

of crystalline deceit

drowned hollow ghost faces

astonished, fearful.

Published by grahamrsherwood