a glassy morning
has made the sparrows
squat down
under the roof brim
a whiz of the scythe
and a throng of
butterflies
was turned into
hush
fields are shuddering
under haze – fall
is coming
at a sluggish pace
fiercely moaned the
wind
whizzing, hissing
down the cliff
steeper and deeper
the path ends up
at
a graveyard - there
is no more
where to go
the rain is drumming
slowly - slowly
are drumming
the ripe chestnuts
too
|