As the Old Oak Flinched
The old oak flinchedin the kick-start wind.
He looked up
with a vacuous grin
and watched a nest lapse
from the crest
of a copper branch.
His raking thoughts turned
over and over again
like a rusty engine,
doggerel and pinched
and, like his eyes,
dusty and dim
and lifeless.
His head was cocked
against his purple hand,
held up like a kickstand.
He watched from
his sweaty bench
as beads of light
stretched and bent
and yawned across
the tawny lawn...
as the old oak flinched
in the kick-start wind.
Poetry by pok-a-dolt
Read 799 times
Written on 2016-04-27 at 11:39
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