A poem by Robert Strickland


Unbroken moors
awash with purple.
A patched sky

not quite yielding
to the light.
And the gulls screamed.

The sea, crashing,
in the controlled violence
of an onslaught continues,

defied, until finally something
just gives way
and falls.

A paleolithic sunset
over emerging paths,
we walk, our feet

cold-soaked. You avoid
the wind and rain
at every turn,

willing to run
for shelter,
to sit it out.

I always try to find
that highest spot,
though lately

it seems less daring.

About the Author:

Robert Strickland is a poet, musician, and composer who is vitally interested in the intersection of the various arts.  His work has appeared in a number of publications over the years, including Burning Word, Pirene’s Fountain, Misfit Magazine and From My Window.  He lives with his wife Dena, their dog Miles, and their cat Petunia on the west coast of Florida, where he plays in an avant-garde jazz trio.

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