Mungrisdale Writers Group

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Sylvia Stevens


The iron clouds shake out

their dust of stars, a galaxy

to feather-fall and form

in powder-patterns on the earth.

Slowly they pile in sleep-soft

pillows on the stones, rounding

the rocks, smoothing the

scars.  Lazily they lie on

ledges and along the limbs

of trees; in the settling 

silence as colour is covered.

The wind sweeps over the 

whiteness, snaking the surface

in ripples and ribbons.  Shifting

the spaces to reshape the 

ridges.  Sifting and circling the

spindrift - high...

to cover the sky.

The silver night crystals the

cloaks of the moon-glazed

mountains; shines in the 

glass-cold hollow of a frozen

footprint, in the stillness

in the timeless indigo

under the gazeless glitter of the stars.

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