Crisp white linen sheets
on the hill
cracked and billowed
on the line
Stark wild clouds
flee eastward.
Wry, cow-towing
pines obey the storm
under the window,
under the pink drapes
Whimsy murmurs:
Rowan will Live.
Reblogged this on Grimbeau.
LikeLike
Comment
Name
Email
Website
Turn on JavaScript to leave a comment.
Δ
This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.
Have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
Reblogged this on Grimbeau.
LikeLike