In Mid-Voyage
On the far islands
under cirulean skies,
beneath the northern
stars in the later
hours of my dusty chapped heart,
I trudge square onto
the wall of ancient
stones left each on top aligned
with others grinding
beneath summer's wind
storms and rain sheets all sideways
to the lay of souls.
This place fares much worse
in the deep of winter's ice
and its servitude.
April 8, 2016 7:28 PM
While the poem is about a mythical place, perhaps, the two photos are of the Faroe Islands.
Written to the mention of the Faroe Islands in Irene's Red Wolf Journal prompt here.
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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.