Monday, November 28, 2016

Brusque November Dusk (a twist to the previous poem:)



 It is dark, rainy, cold. The perfect night for a bit of word-play:)
 This is the previous poem with a mood-swing...

Plowed fields like still-life oceans lie
Beneath blue bluffs of frozen sky
Transfixed, the ridge, with rigid trees
Shoulders the ranks of centuries
Their forms sketched, shamelessly and stark
Against the brush of early dark

The wind wanders; wonders alone
Where have the minstrels of dusk gone?
No lilt of leaf to tease the air
And please the straggler pausing where
The song of billabong and seas
Would softly sweep through sleepy trees

November’s brogue is roguish, bold
It moans at doors closed to the cold
West’s embers cannot keep their spark
Day disappears into the dark
Save for gold rectangular shapes
Dotting black worlds with window-scapes

Somewhere the laughter of a child
Is summer kissed and morning wild
But here day’s end folds like a fist
Into November’s morgue of mist
Twilight, a lonesome land bereft
Like a ghost-town with no one left

© Janet Martin

No comments:

Post a Comment

Thank you always for your visit and your thoughts.