Wind in the night. Rain against the curtained window. At the approach of morning the dawn chorus vied with the wind’s swirl and the rain’s beat. In rare moments of calm a blackbird’s solo song sang. Listening, listening whilst still seeking sleep there is a continuous presence of grey sound; are there waves tumbling on a beach, or is it air conditioning sounding across an empty room? Now drawing the curtains the morning is revealed in a tumultuous garden. Branches are thrown upwards into the dripping sky, downwards to the wind-blown grass. On the rain-drenched patio the mirroring flags are dotted with pear blossom.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 3:39 AM UTC
Wind in the night. Rain against the curtained window. At the approach of morning the dawn chorus vied with the wind’s swirl and the rain’s beat. In rare moments of calm a blackbird’s solo song sang. Listening, listening whilst still seeking sleep there is a continuous presence of grey sound; are there waves tumbling on a beach, or is it air conditioning sounding across an empty room? Now drawing the curtains the morning is revealed in a tumultuous garden. Branches are thrown upwards into the dripping sky, downwards to the wind-blown grass. On the rain-drenched patio the mirroring flags are dotted with pear blossom.
Prose masquerading as poetry - or maybe the other way round. Whatever, this is a first toe in the water for my collection here on Hello Poetry.
