Pure Gold

Morning mist hides the California gold
Beneath its silver shimmer clutch
I’m here on the early train
Speeding, screeching


Waiting for gold to turn to rust

On an eyes-closed
Forward reaching track
Something hides amidst the shivering grass
Cement shadows bury thirsty fields
In the aging summer of the west

On an eyes-open
Homeward rumbling ride
Hindsight’s route arrives
Blurs the landscape,
Shadows shift
In shields and shades

Yester’s track lost on the morning’s rising rumble
Next town’s announced to rush in late
When it streams
Speeding, screeching


This train will never stop nor wait

Hours in, sleepy drifting eyes
Whistle warns to stretch away these aches
I reach, palms shaking towards the rising sun
Praying this gold won’t turn to rust

Hours in, sleepy drifting eyes
Whistle wails:
Speeding, screeching


The purest gold could never truly rust


2 Comments Add yours

  1. Amanda Yarn says:

    Dear Blythe,
    I love the way you weave words together to create tapestries of landscapes that take me deeper into the psyche where a wealth of feelings lie. Thank you dear one for your poetry.
    I hope you are well. I would love to hear from you what you are doing.
    Love and Blessings,

    1. blythenora says:

      Amanda! Thank you, that means so much to me. Missing you and sending love ❤ Would love to catch up sometime soon!

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