This poem first appeared in Northwords Now.
The burn bed
The sheets are pulled back
leaving a scuff of algae
like the velvet jacket
on the back of a drunk.
The stepping stones of the ford
mosaic the mud
unseen
for a generation.
That last pool endured
days of scum and midge
pokes for fry
until it too was dry.
Desert scrolls and stones
litter this new path
beneath meadowsweet walls;
the depth of the pot
attracts a shoal of blackbirds
to hoe its moist furrows.
Alight.
I wake myself to follow.
© Bridget Khursheed
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