Apparition

My hunger grows

for the farmer’s bread.

I dreamt last night the scent

still lingered at the ford,

off the river ~ in the air,

blown by old stone,

rising out into the wide countryside.

Further I reached towards lost cities,

abided, yet hidden in structure.

I envisaged saluting monuments,

though I sensed

their essence remained.

The smell of dust

settles in my slumber,

the grime of war rinses

but few when it rains.

And I am old, used to decay;

the scent clings to my nostrils.

I am as old as the hills

they rose from. Plainly,

I can still taste the sediment

of my country’s crust,

a calcareous soil,

too dried up to bear its own fruits.

The trails, along the coastline

have been brined and aged

for some time. Soaked

in that erosion,

I became aware of waves

mislaying their energy,

changing winds

leaving behind only caves,

upon notches,

upon cliffs.

Exposed stone shapes,

jagged and sharp

along the water's edge,

have long been rinsed clean

of the screeches

from sea-clawing gulls,

harrowed in their contention

for the last meal.

My impetus draws

distant memories,

reminiscing of shorelines

so striking—

a presence so youthful.

So let me die here.

Let me rest forever

in this slumber,

as I remember and lay

on hills of another’s land.

Let me rest my eyes on sights

that could have been mine.

Feed me your bread

from the farmer’s field.

Cover me

in your coat of arms,

protect me amongst the

luscious fir trees;

before the charge of my

castle walls, before it all comes

crashing down when I wake.

~ Jessi