Poetry Blogs (mourners)
This is my vision of a certain cast of English village (not so much in springtime).
March winds stir listless eddies,
fluke in tired gusts over thin pools,
flare through fields of stubble
then flag, exhausted, sour and wheezing
from the blowing day;
coughing, rubbing arthritic fingers,
cold as a church bell sounds the hours.
Spring will be late this...
Saturday 23rd December 2017 3:13 am