ARCHEOLOGY There are no flowers, and birds have sought kinder weather. The gnarled trees, bereft of leaves, their limbs like leper’s arms, seem from another planet. Day by day, as my hair turns grey, I speak to myself, but I have nothing important to say, and what good are words? They’re feeble tokens. Creatures roamed this earth for millions of years, and not a word was ever spoken.
George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.
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