A shooting,
not a Falling Star,
slung from Orion's Bow
over the wooded hill,
past the Waterfall,
where it is said
pure Water still flows...
Not a Sound
but the rush of Water,
pushing, roaring
like a Lion
witha misty mane
shaking off the moisture
as he prowls the Plains;
the Water blue/black oil
with white capped waves,
streaming past,
looking thick
and lugubrious,
sweet syrup
bursting over the rocks,
the flotsam and jetsam
clinging to the shore
with white-knuckled
dertermination...
Dec. 15, 2014
No comments:
Post a Comment