DESOLATION

What came wafting    

down the ditch 

by the marsh grass waving   

opened a hole   

in the day through which,   

 

like a puff of breath, 

a ghost fountained up 

rising in soft slo-mo, 

lost, desolate, no place 

left to go.  

Excerpt from the poem 'Standing' by Tom Sleigh.

© 2021 Marco de Waal

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