Photo by Susan Wilkinson
Spire
Ellen White Rook
Struck by lightning
smashed by wind
it was such a long time ago
there are no photographs
of when it reached the sky
and all who passed were drawn
to heaven
as I am drawn
to the square
foreshortened tower
white, painted parapet
I want to climb beyond the choir
to stand on the sky’s sunken floor
under the ghosted
steeple
a good view
like the view
from the long-arched footbridge
over the marsh
where sun ends afternoon
orange fire shrieking tight
A hunter and his dog
paddle from the blind
His fluorescent vest holds
the faintest cloud of bright
Rising from his back the gunstock
looms a few seconds before
it becomes invisible
My friend Susan
played the flute
When I listen to the radio
sometimes I recognize her breath
It is that distinct
Clouds resting on
a missing steeple
silent water
in a bog that stretches as far
as I can see
Ellen White Rook
Struck by lightning
smashed by wind
it was such a long time ago
there are no photographs
of when it reached the sky
and all who passed were drawn
to heaven
as I am drawn
to the square
foreshortened tower
white, painted parapet
I want to climb beyond the choir
to stand on the sky’s sunken floor
under the ghosted
steeple
a good view
like the view
from the long-arched footbridge
over the marsh
where sun ends afternoon
orange fire shrieking tight
A hunter and his dog
paddle from the blind
His fluorescent vest holds
the faintest cloud of bright
Rising from his back the gunstock
looms a few seconds before
it becomes invisible
My friend Susan
played the flute
When I listen to the radio
sometimes I recognize her breath
It is that distinct
Clouds resting on
a missing steeple
silent water
in a bog that stretches as far
as I can see