Posted in Poetry


The stones smell hot after a rain
splitting themselves for the love of a stranger
who only expects to own them
swallowing them (w)hole
letting the sharp edges of ancient
glaciers and tribal villages
rend their soul into a million shards
of sand tossed beneath the waves
tumbling quaking ebbing in time with the August moon


© Jilly’s  All Rights Reserved

Sunday Whirl:  wave, tribe, edges, expect, quake, spit,(split)
stone, village, stranger, hole, (whole) own, swallow


A wild soul writing poetry.

10 thoughts on “Migration

    1. Thank you for your comments. I started with the brackets as a reminder to myself in first draft regarding which words I had used (this is my first time at the Whirl) and then it got me thinking about the multiple uses of the word and I decided to leave it stand. I DID allow myself the license of using split instead of spit 🙂


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