Pages

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Ill winds

The wind's ill
but it blows well
and good. To some
one, no good being
left a great sum when
it wasn't willed. No,
not by a wind, nor
Time, nor the Easterly
ways she hangs about,
and cross, creases her
face to say hi,
then leave it, her
with the wind.

Sunday, January 08, 2017

The wisp that was and wasn't

It was
lower, less round, less
deathly pale, and more
imperfect
than the half-moon looming
above it
until it
wasn't, blown
into blue by
an unseen breath