The Healer

The twisted spire of cold black stone
rose gravely from the broken soil,
and grasses toiled in harsh lands blown
by winds of loss and scented smoke.

The sky in red was deep and warm
with bleeding sunset's final blink.
In flocks the snipes were flying home
in wheels with sweeping thoughts to think.

Alone I trudged on roads long lost,
through windblown moors of introspection.
Obsessed with thought and self-reflection,
and self-distraction, self-deception.

An island loves the sea alone.
Surrouding, giving, pulsing, living;
and passing ships are just ignored
unless the island is explored.

A moonmist lake of clear green water,
I found her running, I stopped and caught her.
She smiled with lost eyes like a dead king's daughter,
and healers we became.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.