In a simple field, no different from any other
Is a clump of small trees with a dark secret
Amongst their roots, we tiptoe down a rocky slope
Torchlight reveals a dry tunnel, strange shelf on the walls
Chattering, we walk until daylight is extinguished by distance
We stop, simmer to quietude, and turn off the torches
Liquid rock once ran where we now stand in black silence
The rock around us the scum that floated on that river
The apocalypse that created our tunnel has disappeared
Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond
More on our virtual Azores Holiday……This poem is set on Terceira, all the islands are volcanic and there is plenty to explore.
Terceira is also known as the party island. The locals certainly know how to have a good time.
We will be in the Azores all week — a poem a day to fly you away……
This clump of small trees conceals a secret,
steep rock scattered slope sliding into black
amongst long tangled roots.
A high tunnel, arching roof, sharp cutting surfaces,
rock drips hanging,
umbilical cord sinuously writhing down
into volcanic depths now empty
silent and still.
Liquid rock ran here once,
the rock around us the scum that floated
on a glowing river extruding into up above
reaching out with fiery devils fingers
grasping at fields and lives.
Night is a cavern, a tunnel to the depths,
it can be littered with fears
haunted by worries, swamped by unslept sleep.
This primordial dark, this barren silence
is filled by the hammering of our hearts.
An apocalypse that is long gone into history,
still we feel the presence of subterranean death
hear disaster echoing across time.
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Published at Fourth and Sycamore in July 2018.