Upon this earth the fire is red.
The swollen brook releases its shed,
And rain falls; shelters are few or one,
Such as the hollow tree long dead.
Misty morning turns to silver sun.
Crisp night comes when the day is done;
Within the dark, herb and briar grows,
But holly and cypress are none.
Clumps of lavender and wild rose
Glint out as brightly and bold as those
Sitting near shady bogs and damp roots.
Fallen flame leaves, though, never show.
YOU ARE READING
Someone Like Me {Poetry}
PoetryWith power there come words. And with words there comes music. And with music there comes joy. And that's why I write poetry.
