Falling as rain falls
on a mountain
storm, shower, mizzle
words cataract through ravines
stream across hills
pour into the wide embrace of rivers
as wild woodcarvers gouge, plane, polish the land
till, with a child’s delight,
dissolving in the indefinable, illimitable sea.
3 comments:
Paul, this is a fine poem. The picture suits it.
Grandmère, you are very kind. It is a strange process to float these on the internet with no idea of who, if anyone sees them.
They are personal poems and by instinct I am a private person.
I am pleased you like them.
I've posted a few poems of my own, Paul, and I do so in fear and trembling. The whole internet experience, in which "relationships" are formed, is strange.
Post a Comment