Upon the dusty precipice stand Canaan’s grieving ghosts;
below lie tired tombstones in pebbled dress,
a cloak of fresh rememberings
to hold dread legions ancient souls in troubled place.
In distant drawn imaginings the Dome stands bright,
alone, and somehow wistful
in the wearied watching of
life’s allotted endless days and blood-linked nights.
The hills are held in place with fresh-hewn rock,
like warts upon a knee they rise
in furious pace; a claiming for
insanity’s sure truth; a surety that sanity must mock.
Familiar lines are drawn to siren’s call,
This place that holds the past
And dreams no more,
But waits for death to rise again in life.
The world grows smaller here,
And so it must,
For minds have shrivelled
In the name of fear.
and the rock