Out
Writing outside
where the failing wind
sources my contours
the whoosh of irreverent travel
slips the ear
and the bristle yap of a garden dog
above mist swords
and billowed edges
whisper in a diluted sun
set for another encore
grass tantalises with samba sways
and bushes wave their tendrilled fingers
in evenings gaps
golden ashes transmute to dirt
as dancing flies
cool in disputed thermals
Copyright © Christopher Quigley | Year Posted 2021
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