A village as flat as the moon is grey. May I dare to be close?
Each stone warms me, each crow asthmatic with my name.
My shadow over the cobbles dark with moss and staying cold.
The river an aortic surge, full of wet maps and dropped stones.
It deconstructs my place, the banks children and unloved
The flow has been made for me....at this moment.
Turning each corner still, ice on spires.
This is my path full of limed feet and scared steps.
You ever feel alone in the place you know best.
Leslie Philibert's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Corpus by Leslie Philibert )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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