Dependent on a Crashing Wave of Fire

The mist perturbs the shim’ring
of the slowly dying sun and
throws its embers over all
that turns to face it.

A circle – searing – sent through
time t’ward bluewhite atmosphere,
masking o’er its ancestors and
spilling in from space –
bonded ‘cross the emptiness eternal.

A spring begets a stream becomes
a river raising tides to wash
away the nurtured land it inundated.

Life raised upon a rock in an
inevitable ocean,
dependent on a crashing wave of fire.

My name is William Altoft. I’m a writer in and from (and consistently on) Bristol, in the UK.



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