Thoughts cling,
like sheep's wool to wire barbs in springtime, fluttering in the wind still speaking of winter.
Some fragmented and torn as pigeon's feathers scattered where she met her last breath,
others deep and rich,
warm with the vibrancy of scarlet blossom and the smell of honeysuckle in the evening breeze.
Shattered, tattered shards speak of emptiness or death,
like a single leaf left clinging when all the tree is bare,
their mists obscuring vision yet highlighting darkened peaks.
or Campion, out of season, flowering alone unaware, of single existence, or its pleasing sight.
Thought sings louder than the crackling fire in a well stoked winter's grate,
fidgets faster than the black cat's paws as she of conquest dreams,
coiled in comfort on the matted hearth.
Thence they multiply into division,
as oil droplets scatter their rainbows in pouring rain,
populate mind's empty spaces leaving neither black no white.
YOU ARE READING
Cuttlebone and Cobwebs
PoetryThe beauty of everything from in the land sea and sky from Cuttlebones to Cobwebs
