Blow wind blow
So warm so gentle
Threading like a mother's hands
Through my long flowing trusses
Which fly wild, mildly irritating
But I close my eyes, blinking away stands
And the hands tuck it behind my ear
Her callused hands grasp
Wooden comb in hand she brushes
Down, stroke by stroke, an artist
Painting in splats, little colours
Dots and dashes of every kind
Pieces of the puzzle to my life
Blow wind blow
Hot on my ears, already reddened
Like a fire, my ire rises to the top
I bat away the dancing strands
The hands bat my own away
In my lap a pair of clenched fists
On my head ten fingers rough
Her shadow looming over me
I shift, squirming in my unease
And a heavy hand falls upon my shoulders
Instantly stilling me
I look not up into where I know I see
Two great eyes narrowed
Black slits that flare and glare
Down at me, always at me
Blow wind blow
Then it stops
And instead, as the hands leave
Busying themselves to tidy up
Blow wind blow me up the stairs
When she turns, I am gone like the wind
YOU ARE READING
Tears Of The Rose
PuisiA. Ton. Of. Random. Poems. Just warning you. The poem that inspired the title of this book: Tears of the Rose A rose Is a prickly thing Armed with barbed thorns Stinging like thousands of merciless Bees that hover protectively Over their prize. Rose...
