Sunday, 31 August 2014

A Painting on Grief

The wind ruffles my feathers
Which float in disparate fashion
Their fronds reflecting an uncertain and eerie light;

The deep swathe of the black plume
Reminds me what I have lost;
And yet not all are tipped in Indian ink.

Pink is not my colour but the reddish glow
Highlights the blood that still flows
Through my gentle veins;

The movements are swift and leisurely
By turns, and the wind, though invisible,
Keeps me afloat.

(c) Poet in the woods 2014


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