dawn

Pink edged clouds in the west
Hang over the sun-scoured shoreline
Birds debate the eleven degrees of perfection
A laker chugs down ominously
Sullen bands of fire smoulder in my hips and calf,
Debating the seven levels of Hell
With my numb toes. The wonderful poem
That I though I wrote and which resounded
Through my head much of the night
Is not on the page, but fades into the background
Of birds, thudding ship engine, and sunrise.

(Visited 22 times, 1 visits today)
FavoriteLoadingAdd to favorites

About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
This entry was posted in Creative writing, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *