Going down


Going down with rolling thunder, humble
with weary clouds that weave their fat fabric,
I see distant moments of rising roar rumble
at the lonesome wake of yesterday's sail flick,
no longer steadfast at the retrospect flight
with its tanned skin and timeless silliness,
with too much umbra to grab the dying night
separating daybreak from your wild water cress.
Thus, I do not die donned in dread or fear,
nor do I willingly abide the coming storm.
All is not windy salt or mongrels in tears,
all is not shaped or draped in a cannery form.




Poetry by Bob
Read 606 times
Written on 2006-07-29 at 14:28

Tags Thunder  Retrospect  Cannery 

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