Featureless hills,
fronds of waving grass swept by
winds unseen, but always heard.
Unfettered loneliness,
day upon day, while children
cry, demanding, constant,
like a toothache.
Snow blowing, bitter January cold making
rest, escape, respite seem surreal.
1886, near Tryon, south of the Dismal,
wind oboeing past isinglass windows
arouses passions, horrors, fears
and Mrs. Klein poisons her children
and herself
Mr. Klein finds them there,
washed by waves of snow
on these ancient seabed sands.
© 1997William Davis