Call of lone curlew
turn down beak
outspread wings
resting on air.
High above outcrop
Whinsill
north facing escarpment
scar of rock
atop the Wall.
A testimony to tenacity
building of forgotten men
frontier of a lost empire.
Flooded quarry water
dark cold hollow on solitary moors.
For some reason, this poem made me think of the Indian houses in New Mexico, USA. The bleak, lonely houses carved out of pure rock, so beautiful and so abandoned by a forgotten people. Scarlett
Love it. It truly touched and walked across my senses. Thank you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem is solid. It really lets you step into the scene as you read these vivid words.