Smoke
Soft, grey, floating tugged by breeze, a light cloud
Almost alive, a plume from source, spreading out
Rounded edges like a cotton ball, smudged against the sky
It twists and turns, folds and curls
I imagine the birth of it, small, hot, as it joins the air
Each tiny particle playing, jouncing with another
Like a swarm of swallows, ever changing form, direction, shape
Seeming to have no firm gain in mind
Enjoying the freedom, billowing forth, so happy to be loose
I ignore the cause, I don’t want to consider
Yet it is there, this ground for the smoke, reason, rhyme
And so I watch this ever evolving cloud
As it paints the sky in front of my eyes
Unable to look elsewhere, drawn to it, glued
Then I find another focus, as life has needs also
I turn to them and so this become a memory
Amongst all the others, this is filed, stored, just another moment
Adding to my own personal plume of smoke
Copyright © Graham Bentley | Year Posted 2022
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