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2/10/2016 3 Comments GaleThe birch yields
As passionate wind strips delicate fronds. Elegant. The oak resists As obdurate wind wrenches ancient limbs. Dominant. The yew endures As renegade wind rips evergreen spikes. Sentinel. The willow sways, Lashing tortured wind with pitiless whips. Triumphant.
3 Comments
Stuart Ferguson
4/11/2016 10:15:56 am
Lovely poem. One of my ambitions is to write poetry but I will stick to narrative for now. Maybe one day something will happen that will inspire me and it will just flow onto the page!
Lynne Crookes Pepper
4/12/2016 04:13:34 am
Thanks, Stuart. I'm not a poet but sometimes the urge to get a mood or image onto the page overwhelms and poetry is the answer! Leave a Reply. |
AuthorI spent most of my life not realising I was a writer. I just thought everybody's minds worked like mine. On some level I had a vague idea that the conversations with people who weren't there might just put me in the crazy category, so I kept quiet. Besides, the people in my head were usually more interesting which was never going to win me friends out there in the reality sphere. Fiction has always seemed to offer more interest than the real world and finally I realised - this is how writers think! Normal people don't have these thoughts. So, I had the imagination and the crazy thoughts. The only thing needed to turn me into a writer was to put pen to paper... Or, in my case, fingers to keypad. Here goes! Archives
January 2019
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