Dry Stone
In its’ drinking of the rain,
Pelted epidemically, absorbed
Of heaven’s thoughts and earthworm prayer;
The colours thaw in rivulets
On slate and brutish stone wash,
Sunk into a crab grass savoir faire.
In its’ sucking of the sun,
Copper hammer beaten, reflects
On somnolent years and rainbow gleams;
A child may brush the surface,
Deposit trace genetic evidence,
Forensics of some past and future dreams…
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2006
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