Monday, 28 October 2013

Beneath the Surface of the Sun's Silence

Phosphenes float in the fleecy clouded sky,
like restive woken walkers, weaving to work.
The withered yellow leaves have all but died;
the worn arms that held them plea for a perk.

The grass-blades shave their early morning frost
as the sun ascends and purifies the night.
The cows complain about the latest milk costs;
the price could not justify the budget's bite.

The wind's peppermint breath conceals its scent
plundered from depths of desperation,
a breakfast of sulfurous sorts, nights spent
ruing the winter's rapid inflation.

And as day swaps shifts with the oscitant moon
the phosphenes know they have arrived too soon.

No comments:

Post a Comment