Cumuli seem eager travellers
under the higher roof of a crazy paving,
jigsaw of a curdled surface,
misfired glaze cracked with blue.
Ah, well - and washing jogs, sways:
a line at a wedding,
little on-the-spot jiggles,
restrained and friendly displays,
hinting at prowess.
And here's the sun, renewer,
true alchemist, worth the wait;
and worth the weight he loses
daily in his proton fires to shine
such a long long while...
hazed in the altocumulus craze,
settling now into thorn-tips.
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...
