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crescent hill sepia

I drove out to the reservoir

on the old white gravel road,

car wheels crunching as if

eating a bag of crisps,

the day so blinding you wish

it had a dimmer switch.

 

the weight of the kentucky sun

was on my back, along with

too many sleepless nights

and way too much gone wrong

and bad luck’s attached itself,

an unwelcome accessory

velcroed to my soul.

 

meanwhile the gatehouse,

like something from the climax

of gordon lightfoot’s old time movie,

comes into view, incongruous,

arresting, gothic, alluringly present.

and despite the sunlight glittering

on the water’s cool depth of reserve,

I experience with the hero

misfortune settle silently on my shoulders

its satin-smooth cloak of midnight dark.

 

Photo from Belinda

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