In silence
eyes peer from
tears in pumpkin skin,
mulched November
sweets left in a storing
The love is gone,
two poets
eaten of their romance,
blueberry lips from
sore and rough kisses.
He left with a telegram
from the BBC
while She stirred up
in sour light,
rhubarbs ploughed by
her father’s moon.


◄ We Delight in the Beauty of the Butterfly

Now ►


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David Cooke

Thu 27th Nov 2014 16:29

Hi Marianne Glad you liked my version of Rilke's Swan.

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Marianne Louise Daniels

Thu 27th Nov 2014 13:10

Hello Martin

Thank you for reading and your kind comments :)

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Martin Elder

Tue 25th Nov 2014 23:27

Hi Marianne
This is lovely, a great use of words flowing and tumbling naturally one in to another.
Thanks for posting this

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