Like sodden fleece
on gathered sheep
clouds trundle, dark and low.
Across the sky,
and sun's white eye,
they flock where seagulls go.
I kneel ashore
where dune meets moor,
the wind beneath my scarf.
With pen in hand,
I sketch the land
and, on its pall, remark:
"This autumn day
of ***** and clay
yawns grey and baleen wide.
It makes me miss
spring's briny kiss
and summer's sequined tides.
But as I mourn
and brace, forlorn,
for winter's coming wight,
my soul is soothed
by nature's truth:
'Day always follows Night.'"
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 3:22 PM UTC
Like sodden fleece
on gathered sheep
clouds trundle, dark and low.
Across the sky,
and sun's white eye,
they flock where seagulls go.
I kneel ashore
where dune meets moor,
the wind beneath my scarf.
With pen in hand,
I sketch the land
and, on its pall, remark:
"This autumn day
of ***** and clay
yawns grey and baleen wide.
It makes me miss
spring's briny kiss
and summer's sequined tides.
But as I mourn
and brace, forlorn,
for winter's coming wight,
my soul is soothed
by nature's truth:
'Day always follows Night.'"
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