Inkspeak: The Traveller by Mark Sheeky



Frozen gloves,

crisp with glass

crazed with flakes of transparent wonder.


Snow in cracks on eyebrows bent low.

Light blue eyes look back

at eyes of thunder.


An explosion of mist-breath

curls and dances in cold static air.


Words float like fish

that swim in the winter world there.




The house before is dark brown wood,

roof heavy, with snow and memory.


Each deep look is understood,

as he turns, from ice to sundown’s flood.




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