Friday, December 5, 2014

The Mourning of Day



















Morning all day
furrowed in grey
Under the weather,
scents of wet leather,
                      splashing in puddles getting the mail.
Slapping drops smack-
in an aerial attack
stinging flesh of face
in which We are Out of place
                        amidst hurling whetted hail.
Sullen skies abide,
concrete curtains hide
the radiant sun,
sharing warmth with none-
                         displaced by mist and gale.
Trumpets pipe passing by
panes, whistling on windows, leaves fly-
blurred in the forgotten hour,
fixed and framed in a seasonal shower,

                          setting the stage for a winters' tale.




Image photo by Terry Korte via Wikimedia Commons (Public Domain), 2006




No comments:

Post a Comment

And then...

  Change is like that strong smell of cut grass or chopped wood that stops you still. Patterns, a symbol can be an illegible sign,  at first...