Call and the Quarry

 

The dusk is bone light,

The still air is pulled and tugged by corvids,

A creeler tacks in mercury past the coiled coast. 

 

Call, and the quarry 

Rolls back its perfect echo;

The trees scribble their lines 

Over a graphite scuff of waterfall. 

 

Below, they crawl through the spined shaft

Dull shouts bend, sinews flex, 

Lanterns pour pigment on cauterised time.