There rests the babe, the child of the sundry sun
There in wait, with black leaves forming the gate..
the Child of a frozen sun
Bells tolling in a tower on the other side of town awoke her.
Thea ended up on the coastline, barefoot in the sand, leaving a trail to be covered in snow.
Last night she had killed a man. The experience was to live inside her for the rest of her days.
She remained merry, like a vibrant spark cast off in the evening. She had sat on the porch watching the forgotten things that peekabook in the nocturnal dim.
Around her neck was a gold clasp, and hanging from it a pale stone. Tribute to her land. The spinning eye, a clock, timing the temperance of her nature.
Turning, she faced the sea, and swallowed all the pride. She listened to the melody of water, the distant clang of haughty bells, the cry of dogs, and birds and children playing tag in the streets that overlooked the harbour.
Mysteries arose from the foam, and she breathed them in. Shells, pearlescent and unbroken, whispered too, at her feet. The beach had a language, salty and mystic, with the rejected things (shells, driftwood, seaweed ribbons, crab claws) which gave up their tales. She had accustomed herself to their timbre, like a memory re-awakened, her cells glittered like strands of diamonds, reimagined with the gifts the mad, new city had given her, after all the pain, in the disappearance of bruises, in what now was her holy hand.
Bells tolling in a tower on the other side of town awoke her.
Thea ended up on the coastline, barefoot in the sand, leaving a trail to be covered in snow.
Last night she had killed a man. The experience was to live inside her for the rest of her days.
She remained merry, like a vibrant spark cast off in the evening. She had sat on the porch watching the forgotten things that peekabook in the nocturnal dim.
Around her neck was a gold clasp, and hanging from it a pale stone. Tribute to her land. The spinning eye, a clock, timing the temperance of her nature.
Turning, she faced the sea, and swallowed all the pride. She listened to the melody of water, the distant clang of haughty bells, the cry of dogs, and birds and children playing tag in the streets that overlooked the harbour.
Mysteries arose from the foam, and she breathed them in. Shells, pearlescent and unbroken, whispered too, at her feet. The beach had a language, salty and mystic, with the rejected things (shells, driftwood, seaweed ribbons, crab claws) which gave up their tales. She had accustomed herself to their timbre, like a memory re-awakened, her cells glittered like strands of diamonds, reimagined with the gifts the mad, new city had given her, after all the pain, in the disappearance of bruises, in what now was her holy hand.