Rusted storm
I watch
this grey storm gather dust,
Breath
eating leaves of autumn rust.
A
machine rolling over spiny gorse,
Sucking up
flies as a second course.
The days
take so long to enter now,
Skies hollow
with what they disallow.
We compose
a tune of yesterdays
Devoid of
guileless wonder and forays.
Counting
stars, they seem to blink at us,
Seeking a
way of communication lost.
And so
we enter into our one true head,
Stand in
line to have our fortunes read.
These
faces all around us have no names.
What
they struggle to say is all the same.
He observes
a red robin painting murals,
Conversing
easily with a light-haired girl.
But you’re
tied. You have no tongue.
And what
has been said can never be undone.
We wait
for morning to crawl over sight,
For today’s
game will only end with light.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, July 2, 2020
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks for commenting :)