The Unrest

sprawled rocks

clutch the cliff edge,

 

white-knuckled,

as a lone village

 

fades into the valley

below.

 

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