Strange,
while one is waiting
on another's (my old mother's) snail pace,
observing the tiniest of spiders on her great trek
across the patio,
being the only human congregation
for the enthusiasm of reiterative pigeons,
kids buried deep in their phones and pods,
empty headed, wishing on word-stream,
sun taking turns with rain-filled clouds
not quite ready to let go,
hearing the egg-laying cackle of an errant hen
another one striding near,
shaking red comb and wattles,
her long toes scratching at an ear...
..
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
