portion of the artwork for Natalie Crick's poem

Natalie Crick

Staring at fog, the ocean is
Ghostly below the cliff,
Fallen without

End, all sound entombed,
Pearly air churning.

Perch on their lofty branches
Peering down
To find nothing.

Come night, cold
Full moon shines,
Crisp banks aglow.

We walk through
Faint dusk,
Blindly feeling our way

Past drifts piled high.
Chilled white ravines
Reflect our lamps.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 49 | Spring/Summer 2017