Calling
Calling across the serpentine path of the river,
Snaking under bridges to the lamp-lit town,
Her voice a silken purr with mournful quiver,
Drifting on the ice-storm sweeping down.
In the rocky coffin of the valley walls,
Calling from the caverns hidden from the eyes,
Whispers veined with tears in the waterfalls
Flutter as the moonlight shines and dies.
Standing in the snowflakes when the pubs have closed,
Streets as empty as a beggars upturned hand,
Love that once adored me, once was predisposed,
Reduced to phantom voices from the land.
Newspapers bowl across the vacant market place,
As I look to the skies above deserted halls,
And try as best I might no longer see her face,
For only in my head her voice still calls.
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