Ruins of a Cistercian abbey.

Summer's heat greens

the cloister-wreck.


A low stone wall

out of Frost's blank verse

winds beside a stooped elm.


Grass, moss, ivy

(heedless, creedless)

claim these saint-acres,


this ghost-church

whose time-bitten archway's

ablaze with strong low sun.




Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 130 times
Written on 2017-07-30 at 09:19

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
I realize that they don't contain the accepted number of syllables. Still, each of these triplets reads like a haiku.

dee quirke
nice one

Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
A picture in words. I could see it with every new paragraph.

ken d williams The PoetBay support member heart!
Bravo, Tom. love the way you use words, well chosen. Interplay, your words, very very good poetry, exultant work.