High North Poem by Leslie Philibert
High North
As fingers stretch into the lesser known,
slate slides into salt,
we are stranded in an half life
of stone that rolls down ice.
Mist drifts us apart,
the rain makes us temporal,
the sky is as pale as a bloodless girl,
forcing our steps to quicken.
The North tells me;
this is a leaving on a seagull`s wing,
steps on an artic bridge,
a change of tides, and at last,
the rain of ending.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 12:23:55 AM # 1.0.0.1119
A wonderfully written piece, Leslie. Thank you