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Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image. At nine o clock rain feathered down,
swiftly bulking drizzle-weight
I stood amazed, by bin, job done,
hatless, coatless, shoulders wet.The west was scripted fire on cloud,
foreshortened bases sealed with sun;
the dark blocks floated edict-loud -
what was written yet undone.The east held arch of rainbow ghost
across the ragged, traveling smoke,
as if to chaos hope held most,
iconic as a Gilliam joke.Within the arc a ruddy glow
sung evidence of force-field dome,
as if some dream had bent its bow
about a sleeping child's dark home.Minded how in Hardy's 'Jude',
he climbs a ladder, sees Oxford.
Always bizarre disquietude
realigns us like a sword.For If I hadn't emptied bin,
I'd never seen the sky so strange,
nor shoulders soaked so shivered in
with thoughts so primed to range.
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Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image. ....................
Doesn't the mind think of the whole world in the clouds?
Rhymes alternately - four beats in the bar. Last line has three - tish!
These pics on my phone are faint compared to the real colors. Sorry.
Google what seems obscure.
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YOU ARE READING
The Singing Season
PoetryThe Singing Season. That's the spring-time. You'll also like other MajorSeventh poetry collections - and there are so many to choose from.