The villages: Snape

The tall, skeletal figure sings, she sings in rushes, she sings in echoes,
through the remnants of her whole self
whilst I wrap myself around her tanned, peeling shoulders and watch
the day
pass right through her
and try not to enjoy letting it do so.
I stay
to pick the fruits of organic decay,
to float, naked, on her calm water,
to capture the moments that challenge her figure
as if they might be her last, as if they might disappear,
in a harsh wind, someday soon.
I wouldn't hold it
against her,
the price I pay to keep her going,
to protect what is hers
but it is no nominal amount.
You wouldn't either, not if you shared her,
the time never matters only the space,
the stretch when hopping from rib to rib.
There's a very exclusive way this one reaches into the soul.

[Photography: Foyers]