Kevin John Mangan


Old Lamanche

The path was uneven and washed out,
storms we never witnessed left narrow mucky faults
spiderwebbing into the ramshackle stones.
The flashlight beam searched the rise and fall of its way,
serpentine and hard, high and low roads of granite as it
meandered past time etched rockface, then onto the valley meadows.
On one of those grass topped knuckles of rock a fire burned erratically,
a nest of flaming snakes, the steady orange glow
erupting in fits of crackling spark; red then golden, t

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