The Unrest

sprawled rocks

clutch the cliff edge,



as a lone village


fades into the valley



an old church steeple

blurs as its broken bells


toll the coming

of the Unrest.


i leave the village square

by the backroad


and ascend

the mountainside.


i dare one look back,

the steeple


now consumed

in thick fog.

i come to the cliff edge,

and the valley


opens up below me

like an unstitched wound.


i lie down among

the sprawled rocks,


watching, becoming

an ornament of stillness.

Poem by William Rumelhart

Art by William Crawford