Nothing has dried or is likely to dry today:
rain-beaded grasses adorned with silver drops sway,
bounce and nod in wet wind, warm enough -
though gust takes my paper to flat-face-down
on sodden concrete, sticks it like an ad on a billboard,
drumming up nullity, nohow.
A mellow paucity's descended in low-lidding clouds,
unending grey on their smooth, sliding way.
Though the air is good to breathe,
smelling faintly of washing and wet grass,
it's a damp for the bones so
only convolvulus really enjoys this weather,
ghostly bells popping out through the hedge,
alarms ringing out silently.
YOU ARE READING
Under The Wings
Poetry.Under the Wings of the Egyptian and world-wide respected Goddess, Isis. Poems of Nature, Inner Resonance and Mythology.
