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
Have you noticed? This poem doesn't rhyme!
Painting by Catriona Taralrud-Bay
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