First I notice the fountains. Mouths of fish
open and hollow. A nymph with grapes,
her tipped and empty urn. Poseidon without
his sea. I miss the water’s song,
the trickle that focuses
a wandering mind.
Next, a row of six cisterns
on a distant sun-glint edifice.
A creek bed with blanched limbs.
Inside a church, cool refuge.
Giant scalloped baptismal
inside ancient double doors.
Fingers dipped for holy water. Shell
bone-dry.
There’s still time
to drop a euro in the coin box,
light a candle and pray.
Dry Spells by Sharon Tracey | Garden Lavender Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
