Member Poem

Let's write a dim, pastoral scene
at the edge of a cliff
far from
a city of swans
then perhaps,
relive the scene
from its origin
and not hide
in half-sewn shadows
but let the scene play out
as it should
with the smell of pine trees
and the pulse of poetry
where lamps will
not light the way
instead, we must
descend steps in darkness
feeling for them in open air
one by one
beyond the cusp
where fact and fiction blend
on a day born of sultry skies
and misty reality