exhausted
we’re lost high on some tiny hills
somewhere in a valley of paradise
overlooking a misspelt ancient
Spanish warfield dripping olives
Ryan snoring at my feet
wishing i was out under sun
with dead (but now second
life) wood baby in hand
I love this poem! It speaks to me as another person who has been lost on a tiny hill. This poem is short but vived and sweet. I love the trees(?) of the Spanish Warfield dripping with olives. I love the imagery and perhaps metaphor of peace (olive branch?) Well done!