Sunday, August 30, 2015


Still Moans in the Folklore

In the village we say
we thread our way
to death.

With the looms, of course,
but, too, the paths above
devouring seas. One

winter, a lovesick black-
smith fled his forge
for their silver cold.

As children we played
stern games on

the same bluff, and
two lost together. “Jeremy and

Lorna” the bobbing wreath
denotes yearly. Green in

green water. A woman falls,
but, well, we have our doubts as

her husband drinks him-
self to terminal rout thereafter.

Next year, two women, hand
in hand. A modern end.

The tourists still come for
the fabrics. And the stories.

We grow unsure. Perhaps lat-
ter from another village? We’d

encourage anyone to fasten
to them. Cloth, increasingly
not as good, passes.

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