All hands to pump there’s been trouble at the mill.
Pitchforks brandished at the secret forest still.
Damp moss smoke concealed by the silhouetted ceiling of birch, hazel, and sycamore.
Furthermore, still caught in the depths of my first thoughts, thwarted, caught inside the contraction of falling underneath the weight of a wave whilst dancing in the foothills & high plains.
High as the summer rain soothes my tired face.
Back at the place of my birth listening to my first words on these moving earth plates.
Trying to escape or at least relate to the city scape, synergy, the answer to a question never asked, never fraudulent I love and hate ferociously in measures equal.
I draw corners at dawn whilst the dew drys and share secrets with trees and tell true lies.
Write poetry? Submit your poem to Poetry Catalog