In My House
The winter has been
bleak and the grey
clouds shed rain-tears,
like a child missing their
favourite toy; sounds of
birds, those feathery
seed and fly eaters, are
outside the door, their
chirps and arias ( like
shadows from their
wings) brush the
crumbling wall-plaster,
flaking it onto the crooked
furniture in my house
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2016
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