In silence
eyes peer from
tears in pumpkin skin,
mulched November
sweets left in a storing
room.
The love is gone,
two poets
eaten of their romance,
blueberry lips from
sore and rough kisses.
He left with a telegram
from the BBC
while She stirred up
in sour light,
rhubarbs ploughed by
her father’s moon.
Hello Martin
Thank you for reading and your kind comments :)
Hi Marianne
This is lovely, a great use of words flowing and tumbling naturally one in to another.
Thanks for posting this
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David Cooke
Thu 27th Nov 2014 16:29
Hi Marianne Glad you liked my version of Rilke's Swan.