Perfect Sunday. It
No sunshine called to bruise the day...
Perfect Sunday. It
Rains.
Minute snaps and dew drops down
The garden path. Outside
*
Everything crackles, like embers
Like forest floor bark
As it breaks apart
And is put back together a fresh
Anew
*
11:20. There's
Time, still.
All through the fibres of
The pages fall
A world more homely
A perfect cadence with
The downpour
*
Humm - somewhere!
The washer spins.
Spins, gargles
And dies.
11:52
There's time. For
*
Muddied orb
To press back the sleep
To somewhere behind the eyes
Out of sight
*
Darkling
The warm pulse of shadows
Close around
Confident
Familiar
Alone
*
17:49
No sunshine called to bruise the day
The mind takes mould, again
And all the houseplants strain their necks
Jealous of the rain outside
About the Creator
Zak Walters
Book lover and (lazy) poet.
IG @zw_poetry
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More stories from Zak Walters and writers in Poets and other communities.
Thoughts on Vocal and the way the world is
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By Jazzy 5 days ago in Confessions
Comments (1)
A beautiful description of a rainy day with a good book. I wish it was raining now so I could curl up next to my window with some reading material.