Grey morning, and the mourning doves are lined up like so many small chimneys along the roofline,
rain, rain and rain again, more rain still to come.
Out in the roadway bright umbrellas are blooming
like wild and dewy orchids in the hands of children
going to school and chattering among themselves.
On the old oak table here, my journals, envelopes
and fountain pen patiently wait this morning's calling
by the muse, alas the lady does not come.
Written for the blithe spirits at Poetry Thursday.
5 comments:
Looks to me like she visted you...maybe you were daydreaming?
What a beautifully composed photo.
Gorgeous picture, both words and image. We should all be so cursed with the lack of inspiration.
I love your photo and poem. Those journals are a real cut above. I hadn't noticed the Cafe KerrdeLune; I really like some of your stuff. I'll tuck these ideas into my gift bonnet.
In the USA everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day.
Which is appropo. Because our founders were mainly Irish and Scotts.
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