Saturday, 7 May 2011

Sweet Rain

Five miles as the crow flies
Across the valley of the dead,
The valley of the weeping river
Swallowed by a suburban rain forest of willow trees-
The aching trunks like old bones
Wallowing in the water.

He turns his head, twisted askew,
The shiny little eyes stare at me.
The honest gold, incompressible
Depth, sweeps beside the vine's crying out leaves-
As they twist upwards, seeking
Salvation from the silver skies.

Feathers like slick black oil,
Body arched as he lightly lands
Among the bulging flowers, the
Fat fleshy buds just waiting to explode with colour-
Expose themselves in the summer.
The green valley is drenched in a late April Shower.




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