So barren and bare
Sacres me with its sense of isolation
Leave-less trees, dead shrubbery scars the landscape
The wind bites through the boulders that shield me from the sudden snow flurry.
Old Man
Sits atop the slate,
Spoil heaps spill still from the rugged ruins of derelict mines.
Firm footsteps back toward the lake to see the sunset skim the surface of the water.
©Alison Jean Hankinson
I used the image called “Winter trees at Coniston” by Fay Collins.
This was written for poetics d’Verse
It is also Day 17 of Napowrimo.
Hues of Hankinson 