The Drain Awaits



First-lit bootprints show my stalker:
that fanatic who never made an enemy
she didn’t like.

Snow stays high on ground and sky;
its fall seems merely perpetual
and pathetic.

The gentle hill hardens with hedges
as my expiration hangs around
glittering air.

A houselight goes off without fuss
somewhere overhead when the crow calls
a mate.

I’m left with every road ahead declaring
the next while my tracks track
until slush.
 
Sarah White


If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Sarah White   would be pleased to hear them.