Between the winds,
the bowing of
trees
and the visceral
rain,
between the flush
of river’s new
routes
and the fielded
lakes,
between the blush
of broken waters
and slither of
cliff,
between the rage,
the clamour of
isobars
and relentless waves
there is
a still small
voice
and sunlight
promise.
1 comment:
I wonder if you ever see, or read, my comments? However, if you do, I really like this poem, I could understand it's pace or whatever they call it in the literary circles! Nice one, Keefers!
Richard
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