A brief drabble.
* * *
Braeburn Prospect
Its skin is like a sheer cliff face
Made of autumn-dappled plastic,
And no one has marred its immaculate surface
With succulent attempts to climb.
And yet, a solitary flag
Has been planted in its summit.
It arches out from that sudden slope in the apex,
As if to say, “There’s no such thing as unscalable.”
But the flag crawled up from within;
You won’t reach the top that way.
Find a tooth-hold,
And the taste of a summer shower
Saving you from the indignity of August sweat
Will trickle down your chin as you rise.
No comments:
Post a Comment