it is the evening and there are whispers
among the grass,
that the sun will not rise in the morning.
the shadows lengthen like grasping fingers,
grass blades made taller than trees,
hills hiding the bowl of the valley,
stealing the last of the sun for themselves.
daisies, dejected, bow their heads,
awaiting the onslaught,
the cold brings the monsters alive.
plants paralysed and frosted,
painted with moonlight,
pigments fade when I try remember
my dreams.
Summer 2018
YOU ARE READING
Unbroken • Poetry
Poetryeven the leaves will not break beneath her touch "All art is quite useless." - Oscar Wilde
