The earth smells of drought,
parched straw burns his nostrils,
rotting fish perfumes with its death.
He misses his boat rides on the lake,
the splash of water, seagulls calling above him,
and freedom from the sound of her complaining.
He can’t remember the song she used to sing.
©Susie Clevenger 2012
The poetic form is sevenling. This is my first attempt at the form.