Wheatfield with Crows


wheatfield-with-crows

Mistral stirs up the wavering wheat field

A frenzy of crows are buffeted there

A storm is approaching; a cauldron of weather.

A murder of black birds are moved by the air.

 

The canvas is caught by the sighs of the planet.

It billows and fills as the paint is applied.

The heat of the meadow will all be forgotten

when thunder clouds break and the storm has arrived.

 

Into the distance my path winds to its finish,

short of the three score and ten you had planned.

Your harbingers call me away to my future

to put down my paintbrush and dance with the damned.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s