The dry days they’ve been predicting are here,

The clouds scarce and stingy.

Like the times when, out West, red cliffs turn black in the moonlight

the way blood does when robbed of the sun.

You won’t understand, but it’s empty here today.

empty of the one thing I need. The one. 

empty …  and likely to stay that way.

‘I have heard, but not believed, the spirits o’ the dead walk again.’

then, just when enough time has passed, or should have,

a memory will wake the misery spirit to scour around my ribs

in hidden places where the emptiness still hides

like black blood in the cool, blue light of the moon.

Published by . Hemmingplay