To Foretell of Forthcoming Woe

I trail my fingertips through marshland muck, probe the pungent undergrowth for remnants of winged things, but they’re too frail to foresee meaning. Feathers from the forest floor hint of messages from the dead, but they’re too garbled, too murmurous, nothing more than mutterings.

When the fallow sun sinks from sight, an unnatural twilight leeches the landscape and mutes the color on the horizon. Mist hangs low over the boggy ground, swallowing the borderlands in pale washes of grey. These places on the periphery where secrets are meant to be laid bare call to me, hidden spaces where land meets sea, where messages linger in wisps of fog, these half-whispered secrets aching to be freed.When the fallow sun sinks from sight, an unnatural twilight leeches the landscape and mutes the color on the horizon. Mist hangs low over the boggy ground, swallowing the borderlands in pale washes of grey. These places on the periphery where secrets are meant to be laid bare call to me. Hidden spaces where land meets sea. Where messages linger in wisps of fog. Half-whispered secrets aching to be freed.

© MARY RAJOTTE