the ocean always dreamed blue dreams

My entry in the current Picture Poetry Contest. I think I did a pretty good job with this, and the thing I really like is that while it refers in spirit to the picture it does not depend upon it to be understood or appreciated.


Dryads

the spring called their names
and poor mute things,
they listened and obeyed
travellers on a weary road
they thought at first that they longed only for a drink
but then they heard

the bell-like voices
and they made their way
to the spring song
witless, numbed, entranced, they stared
at brief beauty
and wondered
if they could feel the water
on their winter limbs once more
their fevered brow

the dryads laughed
the song cracked
and they were home
voiceless, mad, besotted

Qimissung