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jeremy-wyattPoems
Quietest in the white expanse of winter, Waiting, watching, the landscape open to my sharp eyes. A pin dropped in snow would make more noise Than my perfect, crouching form. I mark the crows as they flit across the sky, Warm memories of summer stalking in the hedgerow. My ears flicker to a distant voice, As you walk up towards the farm. I will glide over the crisp snow to rub around your legs, You and I, both finding our way home. Jeremy Wyatt.
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Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 1:16 PM UTC
Finding My Way Home
Quietest in the white expanse of winter, Waiting, watching, the landscape open to my sharp eyes. A pin dropped in snow would make more noise Than my perfect, crouching form. I mark the crows as they flit across the sky, Warm memories of summer stalking in the hedgerow. My ears flicker to a distant voice, As you walk up towards the farm. I will glide over the crisp snow to rub around your legs, You and I, both finding our way home. Jeremy Wyatt.
This poem goes with a large acrylic painting that my Wife Lucia sold for me yesterday. Margaret, who bought it , wanted to hear the story behind the paint.
#cat#snow#home#winter
jeremy-wyatt
Written by
jeremy-wyatt
Welsh
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 1:16 PM UTC
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