Texture
Somehow the colours seem sharpereven in a fading light, I taste them
tangy, tarte upon my tongue.
It will be texture that I miss.
A score of years have passed
and in a blink, I watch the budding
on the trees and patches of grass,
they are vivid and the ground unkempt.
Has the spring always been or does it seem
that I sense, smell the overturned turf,
Perhaps like a forebear, I should take
the wooden grapin and rest my soul
watch as birds lift the forgotten twig
that ripped from stem, autumn took her,
left her lying, then slowly covered,
the sun reveals, the coverage conceals.
Am I out of focus that I seem to see,
have I become stale to other tastes,
I let the soft silk slip through my fingers,
yes, it shall be texture I miss most.
Poetry by Elle
Read 964 times
Written on 2014-03-28 at 20:35
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Peter Humphreys |
Lawrence Beck |
Ivan R |
Chaucer Whethers |
F.i.in.e Moods |
Texts |
by Elle Latest textsTwo Little CatsHills Not the End Cinders Oh perfect Day |
Increase font
Decrease