Cliff Tales


 Weave the willow strands into ribbons

and thread them among the standing stones.

Crush the charcoal in your hands and paint,

stag and storm and sunken well.

Remake the sky, 

in shades of sable and shadow,

and etch your name hidden deep in the bottom of the rocks;

the scorpions will guard it…

Leave agates in the falcon’s nests and rose petals near the brambles,

as payment for your memories,

 and in gratitude for a new purse full of tales.

Fill your mouth with pebbles and

whisper to the waves rocking against the shore, 

of monsters with eyes of shell and pearl and seagrass,

and the turtle-eyed folk who loved them…

and watch the swell foam opalline around your feet as they wash back to hear the rest of the story.

Rest in the cradle of moon and morning,

in the changing of the stars, 

and write your name in the sand before you leave,

so the shores can carry it away,

a herald,

washing up on new coasts before you,

as you climb the distant cliffs…



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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