Mustard
Seldom-spoken tastes and smells
Stir up moments poorly drawn,
Surface-summoned by the bells
From brumous elastic hope-sprung wells
Where each day's bucket is cast.
Let old pities prowl forlorn
In cold remembrances past,
Lurking there, mustard-bright, lost at last.
Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2016
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