Today's poem is by Emily Wolahan
You never said northern air was a cure-all
for demented spirit, but I plunged in crying,
Cure me. Sunset, castle, tidal bank:
I am weary. I shouldn't have thought finding
color in a bleak landscape or bloom
briefly achieved meant much.
You and I consist of the line between
this place and that, a nose forever
for bounty, a craving for boon.
We find carved from the moorland
one farm field abutting an oak grove
sheltering the farmhouse convenient
to its barn, dull pebbledash, a slightly tawdry
hedge, the washing line, a broken-down car
and the corrugated barn roof nearly detached,
its inconsolable drip grooving the concrete.
The red flowered window boxes garish, too
red to be real, a warning flag to all who frame
the hill with windshield and rearview mirror.
For it will not be saviour nor salve.
Despite the track that leads to the house,
a child's finger-painted sea taped
to an upstairs window, the flowers,
nor the washing line will do anything
but stare as we hold each other very far
from the home that home now seems.
Our mission to the hinterlands.
We'd hoped to retrieve some bell heather,
an asphodel, but nothing here wants us,
knows what to say, nor begins by asking.
Copyright © 2015 Emily Wolahan All rights reserved
National Poetry Review Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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