VITERBO UNIVERSITY | SPRING 2014 | VOLUME 78

TOUCHSTONE

LITERATURE

Popple Hill

Patrick Bradley

The ground here is rough, biting
at the bare foot. It slopes down

rushing towards the shore. Sun,
brightest light shimmering off the waves,

emerges from the lake itself. An empty
dock, barren of joy, struggles

to maintain its composure
and an aluminum hull, showing its age,

wanes with every wave. Wind:
cattails bend in unison, break

for the weight of a midday wren.
The ground here is rough,

but I don’t mind.