Dark firs and spruces

fall in order down the hill

and drape the checkpoint

in mute darkness.

Mists roll desolate,

hanging,

within one’s touch

floodlit by a single beam,

which lights benighted borderlands,

tempting new beginnings

far from the calm comforts of the past.

Invitation or reprimand?

 

 

Author: Jane Eckford

2nd September 2023