On the lonely cliff, Echo,
caught a scent so familiar
yet so strange. It made her gasp.
Her nostrils strained to catch
the smell of wanting. Echo, unafraid,
accustomed to her thankless gift,
waited for the call she knew would come,
playing a finger game devised
to fill the lonely hours, its outcome
inevitable but never sure.
The call rang out, the one
that matched the smell in colour,
taste and tone. She answered
in the only way she could, grasping
the emotion, caressing it and sending
back its tattered end strung with ribbons
of her sympathy, the quiet bells
of her concern. Enough
she hoped to mask the odour,
perhaps enough to turn the tale.