Big yellow tracer
As the big winter dipper,
Traces a low arc in the grey linen page.
Hardly raising its head before bowing out disgracefully , dunce like.
It's intense yellow glow,
Only lifting from the margin.
Matching leaves on the concrete hard frost ground.
Picking out a pallet of pleasure and harmony,
Evergreen themes dull palid hues archival.
Greens banked for spring.
Increased intensity winking windows on light days growing shorter.
There purposeful poignancy underlined.
Room detail lost to unnatural illumination.
Embolden the laughter,
Sing with medieval simplicity.
Touch the phosphor scents.
As coal fires acrid smoke,
Thickly fogs the room,
Prior to glows to huddle round , familiar , annual .
About the Creator
Paul Beckett
I’m a writer, horologist & joy filled explorer. Reality to me is plastic. I’m fascinated with time, quantum physics, analogue and fashion.
My writings at least 69% autobiographical, often 99%
Fav:Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams- S.Plath
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More stories from Paul Beckett and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Dryads are Calling
They say the forest by Phoenix River sings. Perhaps it is just the wind howling through the leaves, or a particular birdsong. But Percy Fisher knows better; he knows what lies in those woods, and he knows that the forest sings of his demise.
By Leigh Hooperabout 17 hours ago in Fiction
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