Appetition
My hunger grows
for the farmer’s bread.
I dreamt last night,
that the scent still lingered
at the ford, off the river
in the air, blown by the old stone-
it was rising, out into the countryside.
Further I reached,
towards the lost cities,
abided, yet hidden in structure.
I envisaged just saluting monuments,
though I sense their essence remained.
Yet, the smell of the dust
is what settles into my slumber.
The grime of war and smudge
only rinses some, when it rains.
And I am old.
I am used to the decay; the scent,
cloying at my nostrils.
I am as old as the hills that they rose from.
Plainly, I can still taste the sediment,
of my own countries crust.
A calcareous soil,
too dried up to grow its own fruits.
For the wept trails at its coastline,
have been brined and elderly for some time.
Soaked into that erosion
I became aware of the waves,
who mislay their energy;
the changing winds,
leaving behind only caves,
upon notches, upon cliffs.
Exposing stone shapes- jagged,
along the waters edge, that have
been long rinsed clean from
the screeches of the sea clawing gulls,
harrowed in contention,
for sights on 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 others 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 these luscious fir trees;
before the charge of my castle walls,
before it all comes crashing down,
when I wake.
~Jessi (poem)