A song drifts gently
Raising hairs
Like icy winds
Lifting skirts
Chords of whispers
Strumming powerlines
Lines of energy
Connecting the towers
Green hands drying
Brown cracks appear
Fresh little flutes
Cease to sing
Quiet grey mornings
Replace pink
Ghosts reappear
In corners
1 comment:
gav, I REALLY like this one babe. Sorry not confident enough to move into critique zone as of yet! xxxx
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