Gravel chips
Sound, growling sound,
cut gravel chips,
a distant howl of
wolves in the mix.
Tyres race the rain
past crawled-out houses
squat and waiting,
rust-crusted gates.
You run the gamut
to catch morning’s eyes;
water’s glitter reflects
circles, spins out, dies.
This mesmerising green
wakens still and a few
await the freshest dip
of ripened dew.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 29 & September
19, 2020
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks for commenting :)