If that was to be the day:
some mist of rain
barn swallows darting
clouds riled and curdling
jack pines complaining to the wind,
at least there was a fragrance in the air
to remind us of the evening calm,
when the sun becomes a stock photograph
and we are silhouettes cut from paper
waiting for church bells to chime.
That Day
29 Friday Mar 2013
Posted in poems
Poetry on the run 
‘clouds riled and curdling…’
this is the english i miss when i’m teaching it. thanks for being a constant reminder of what a beautiful language it is.
LikeLike
i have been thinking about this comment and it may be the nicest one i have received yet…so thank you
LikeLike
We live on a bit of a hill and when the wind comes everything and everybody complains. It is like a living creature.
LikeLike
“It is like a living creature”…referring to the wind/hill is the germ of a poem.
LikeLike
You mean I have finally caught the disease of your poetry?
I must get inoculated.
LikeLike
Do not worry, my poetry is like a mild cold that passes quickly and does not leave any lasting scars.
LikeLike
🙂 Love it
LikeLike
Thank you Ina.
LikeLike