1 November 2012

Waiting: poem

In the stillness, the conception of breath,
exhaling its promise of stormy wrath.
But for now, just the possibility hovering
in the inertia of this searing heat.

In my nostrils, the ghost-scent of raindrops
gather as cloying clouds
despite the earth beneath,
trembling into dust.

The clouds hang, heavy as the sea
as I wade through suspended minutes
in this antiseptic room, knowing the simple pleasure
 of closing my eyelids against it all.

Small Stone for 1 November 2012
Mindful Writing Day

No comments:

Post a Comment