Ragged hands make waves in sodden,
churned water where you stand.
In this place of wonder only birds
can swoop to depose gratitude;
they are hands of a spineless God,
a mobile, wretched in its swathes
of winded wonder. Glass panelled foliage
makes a mockery of horizons
where bears dream up to sticks and
down to stones. A barking ghost
hides in woodland, ever searching for
an encampment to dishevel.
These lands encase every eye rolling
thought and blissful tear, into suds; gone.