Wet, bedraggled,
Like a street urchin's locks,
Then finely combed
To unfold like a northern lights curtain,
It hides bark faces from my prying eyes.


Tight,
Like someone's great grandma's perm,
Clinging to rock, crimped and frilled.
It tempts my gloved fingers
To trace its tiny cups.


Wrinkled, weighted,
Like a beaten man's beard
Filled with days of debris,
Its history told within the crevices,
It repels my glistening face.


Cliffs bleeding water
Weep at my feet,
Infuse my worthless shoes,
Seep through my toes
And pool under my step.


The air thins,
My breath is staccato,
A  damp wall hovers beneath me,
It exhales and settles
Like a billowing quilt.


I'm cold but warm,
My pulse races, my heart bangs
And the rain beats against my back.
I pull at my hat, wet wool smell...
And return to another world.
www.garsong.com
Gar's Bookshelf
Winning Poems & Stories
Mosses, Air, Water - Elizabeth G. Arthur