all around us are spots of red
like measles over a face that
is only now healing, cloaks
draped in wild abandon over the
sun-baked rocks, sentinels peeking
from behind pink stripes and
distant canyon borders
and not a fence post in sight;
what freedom is ours, driving
mile after mile over this
violent sunset land, and our
constant companion temptation,
whispering in our ears that
we are never to return to
a land where there are no
fields of red flowers
Linda Rhinehart, 30, is a student, writer and translator currently living and studying in Cardiff, Wales. In the past she has lived in Switzerland, the USA and Germany. She has been writing poetry for around three years and reading it for a lot longer. In her spare time she enjoys playing piano, going for walks in nature and cats.