These Briared Hours

An intermittent series of works-in-progress

There were few moments of peace in her inner ear. She could speak, yes, she could turn hearts like channels of water, but her own heart fought an endless war with hard, unforgiving sound. Silence had long since become a rarity, yet each time it came, and it did, it was always as if the pavement of all she knew had suddenly crumbled to sand, leaving her more afraid. Afraid that amidst all the noise, there had been one real sound she’d been utterly deaf to. So she had learned to fear the quiet. Had trained herself to move among the thorns. To block the path out. It could not be heard.

Photo by Kevin Butz

She walks with the wind
Cruel and cold
Dressed in cries
Of the loveless

In these briared hours
Forgiveness n’er given
Remember then
All that was taken

He returns, wandered
To light the fire
To carry her name
So burns the rag of ages

Photo credit unknown

The Eastvale

His sleep is found standing
His ears never resting
His work here demanding
His dreams ever testing

For cruelty rides the night
Seeking boys to devour
Thus by his hidden sight
He watches every hour

And should the wind call
Sending cries on its wail
His faith musters all
To run fore without fail

This horse of great heart
Fearless though his name
In shadow for his part
Carries the dawn’s flame

Photo by Tamara Gooch