Wistful is the way
that the shadows shore up to play
and the length of a baking day
is a minor balm that shines.
This bliss without the rain
assuredly contained
by the well that echoes my name
these small hands own all this land.
Figurative in all endeavour
yet they darken all the weather
and denigrate the ether;
this land holds no more sway.
A momentary fragment
lost to wind and time imagined
the well repeats my soft lament
in silence where the land fades.
Vast Imbecility 