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Apr 2016
I sit with Sylvia Plath
open.

Thunder tears my ideas
with the rip sound of newspaper.
It rains a cold shower
lit only by Hollywood B-grade lightning flashes.

Old spouting overflows. Waters spill;
a forgotten bath with taps left on.

Winds tug at washing that’s pegged tight. They
tangle soaked sheets around the line with
noisy bluster.

I sit with Sylvia Plath
open.

Listening to her voice?
Joel Hayward
Written by
Joel Hayward  Abu Dhabi, UAE
(Abu Dhabi, UAE)   
711
   Rapunzoll
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