At Sunset

The faintest whiff of dampness rises now.
The sun has gotten low. I'm taken back
To where I grew up. There, the days were
Somewhat longer, not so hot, more often
Rainy. In the evening, dampness did not
Rise discreetly. It surged forth, enveloping
The solitary walkers, lovers, tardy children
Trying to beat nightfall home, but, here,
It hasn't rained for weeks. The soil's cracked.
The grass is yellow. That that whiff of
Dampness still can rise seems odd to me.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 54 times
Written on 2020-09-07 at 02:55

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