Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Omen

Not all is of the wind
erasing the sand
when it brings voices
of the past with thorns
blooming, like mistaken tunes.
Thirst torments,
begging for a drop
as I walk by
clouds of silence,
and I stare
at the ominous horizon
where the ocean,
for re-plotting,
surveys its coordinates,
the waters of death ready to charge
at oblivious shores.