`
Rough was the wind that flattened
a tree from its anchored moor
a destiny not too quick to ruin
presented a whispering word to me
on we traverse without respite
that weary road we take
what imprint was left behind
that swept relentless against washed walls
a spectre of bygone landscapes
whose blustering gusts are raptured calls
`
© Frederick Kesner. All Rights Reserved.
