The Weather

No one sees the weather
A seamtress ghost sits alone
Pale indigo gleam in a broken
Pain window,
Tying intricate knots, knitting a sheet
Of The Night
Roosts in naked threads of lightning
Vanes sew the see sawing winds
Into worthless fabrics
Too dear for a kings disdain,
Reach across a timepiece desert
Conceal burnt matches in a memory painting
Lost in lists of weary eyes watch leaden lids close
Up, no one sees the weather.



Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 915 times
Written on 2016-06-02 at 22:12

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Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Atmospheric, weather an unpredictable mistress

Elle x
2016-06-02