In A Patch Of Stone Walled Field

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In a tumbledown landscape
Above the sea,
Olive trees flutter silver green
In patches of thin earth
And scattered stone,
Scraped into a rough field.
Over the wall
A hobby of a vineyard,
Draws deep-root thirsty
For its plump infants
Suckling on the vine,
And the sun
Polishes them
To succulence
And sweet raisin wine.
And in the fallen down next,
Fennel grows rampant
And unkempt
Spicing with heady aniseed.
And in the shabby next
There is lavender on the wind
Emollient with herbaceous strands,
Mixing freely
With the airborne personality
Of wild thyme
And the pheromonal
Purple flowers of rosemary.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Beach Shack

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As if
The sea
Had constructed it
With surge
That brought the plank,
The net,
The wave rotted rope,
Tattered and thready
And bone white
From the salt sun:
A pile
High on the tide line
As stark and dry
As the loose feathers
And rounded drift wood
And the seaweed
Crisp as rind:
Debris ground by wave
On the pebble beach,
Burned and bleached
By elements
Constant rotation
And then so loosely arranged
By calloused
And fishline hands,
Ruddy and sun shanked
And work worn
To a soft disintegration.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Half The Story

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Beyond the trees
In the blue reach
Across the strait,
To the jutting promontory
And the rise
Of distant mountains

We find only half the story

For the near pines exude
Pungent alkaloid sap
And the ratchets
Of cicadas
Percuss in the needle canopy,
And the air
Holds the salt sweat
Of a seaborne breeze
And the moist weight
Of ozone’s far flung memory.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015