so crypt and cold in the beating wind

so crypt and cold in the beating wind
burned and foiled like a heron
guarding a fake heritage
with wet sand pressing hard
beneath a dusty boat house

the cove in its bending grace
replenished and empty again
holds the eye captive to the I
to the damp smell of hinges
flapping with small bird wings

eye retreats behind sand and sun
rolles into findings of protection
about the wild breathless Lily
of the weary Valley of Spring
to the one man's poor orchestra




Poetry by Bob
Read 614 times
Written on 2015-10-18 at 19:53

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Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
Great stuff indeed. And what a great line "one man's poor orchestra " is. You ended with a zinger :)
2015-10-21