He goes for days without
Seeing a soul.

It’s cold out,
And getting dark.
One of the children is a girl,
Untouched as the field she stands in.

Her skirt lifts mid-calf in the breeze,
One hand holding out for his like
A flower curling out from a stone,
Turned into nothingness.

The purple sky violated by orange
Weeps over the creek,
Shaming the white of her body with
A ghostly stain.

The old farm stands like
A woman unwilling to give in,
Cradled by the hill.
She is alone

On the fading road,
Her exposed neck swan-like.
The dried bone is so pale
It blushes blue.

—

Natalie Crick, from the UK, has poetry published or forthcoming in a range of magazines including The Chiron Review, Interpreter’s House, Ink in Thirds, Rust and Moth, The Penwood Review. Her work also features or is forthcoming in a number of anthologies, including Lehigh Valley Vanguard Collections 13. This year her poem, ‘Sunday School’ was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her first chapbook will be released by Bitterzoet Press this year.