He wakes from a dream flickering in silken darkness
in silence drifting through a broken window
sill covered with the kiss of her fingertips.
There is no order to his thoughts but curiosity has a sharp edge
like the sword of the conqueror
carrying a chain of roses.
The ancients wear night dressed in deepest blue
she carves black trees into the barren sky
beneath the wind across an ocean drowning in her dark grace.
Land jutting into the face of the sea.
Cold as bitter tears.
The taste of salt on his lips.
‘Shipwrecked’ (c)2022 Deborah McMenamy
All Rights Reserved