Corroded flat as hills allow,
stubbled with stones and brittle weeds,
only the thorn blooms here
and scatters its seeds.
The hills are blank and pale now
beneath the clear and static air.
The landscape is as empty
as a blindman’s stare.
Mad Clare, the story tells,
gathered her sticks and pieces here.
Her mind wore on the open rock.
But we forget Clare,
walk over and over the hills of strewn
and fractured rock where the berry
suckles the given stone
and the light breaks clearly.
These are the cold, the worn hills
with madness in their monotone
and emptiness where no life moves
beneath a stone.
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