Grovelling daysGroveling days that flee the light
cringe at wind's end.
I but spatter words and fight
all silent storms you may send.
Old trees and withered grass
waits for the radiance to pass.
My moon is no merry mistress,
nor is it time to feed the brook
in days longing, but in distress.
Why can I not but look
at the sky's windy reflection
void, in grey rejection.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1200 times
Written on 2007-01-17 at 20:30
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