Magazine August 10, 2020, Issue

Highland Path

(Eddie Thomas/Getty Images)

On a ridge in the mist
The stone juts from the ground
Trapped by time, lichened and flaked,
A boundary, a milestone,
A child’s grave.

The clouds stream past.
Who now can think
As they thought?
Something of them
Thinks in me.

A child, a white-gowned girl,
Stares into the wind,
Wanders mad within me.
Old men speak, chilled and aflame
In setting suns,
And weep at the moon.

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Brian J. Buchanan is a writer in Nashville, Tenn. His short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in Crannog, Chronicles, The Westchester Review, Literary Matters, Modern Age, Cumberland River Review, Potomac Review, and elsewhere.

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