I sketched your face in
the midst of a bleached sky
to touch the cool wet sands
barefoot and loaded tonight.
Awaiting the rising red moon
ballerinas twirl on the sea wall
eight stone three drifting away
guided by ghosts of privateers.
Eyes expressionless and blank as
swale grass upon the dune quivers.
Now you’re here; then you’re gone;
as tears in the rain, the days of fear.
I’m sinking into the charcoal sketch
a note sits in crayon upon the dash
justification simple as uselessness.
eight stone three melts into the sea.
About the contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. Ken is a proud member of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire. He currently has three poetry collections; “The Cellaring”, 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His second book, “A Taint of Pity”, contains 52 Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection. Ken’s third poetry collection, “Zephyr’s Whisper”, 64 Poems and Parables of a Seasonal Pretense, and includes his poem, “With Charcoal Black, Version III”, selected as the First Prize Winner in Realistic Poetry Internationals 2018 Nature Poem Contest. He’s been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for the Best of the Net, 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.