Monday, March 17, 2014

13. Between

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:

Squibzy / Richard Hubbard said...

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!