PALM – A POEM

Writing

Tucked well beneath a blanket,

Morgue white, the colours run,

Rusting iron begs to feel

the wilting winter sun,

As the outstretched hand

of a heartless moor

drips all its palette into one;

Purple, lavenders wheezing face,

Lies deep beneath the silver lace

of an icy frozen pond,

Its violet blood clings hard to mud

to preserve sweet summers bond.

The golden glow of grass, in shoots,

Hides in respite from the soles of boots

that love to roam the land,

Tufts of ferny feathers wait to

scatter grains of sand, under this white

that lives forever

in the palm of winters hand.


READ MY SHORT STORY – HERE