Fearful cows. Proud buckets.
Sequestered and barbed.
Three freckles. A constellating of anchors.
Violating space.
The long road travelled
and the long road ahead.
Each length, perfect reflection of the other.
You are travelling as a mirror. Roving.
Violating time.
Swallowing hours. Draped.
A shroud of volition.
The sky is still crying. The sea is angry.
You hear it sometimes,
underneath the wind’s wails.
It can hear you. Sometimes.
But always it sees.
Violating mind.
What it sees sends the sun to sky,
turns rain to tears of joy
that drizzle down,
dousing the faces of fearful cows,
collected in proud buckets.
Infatuated with all forms of art, Mark Russell primarily engages with words and images. He's written two novellas, a few dozen poems, and is currently writing his first play. Visually, he enjoys juxtapositioning serenity with chaos, via nature and live music. He grows a beard in his spare time. www.instagram.com/nativefear