Willow
Loose green tendrils hanging low
kiss the soft green earth, the bough
kneels with the wind as if in prayer,
a penitent so humble, so subservient.
A pliant bow that's unreleased,
and like to spring to heaven with a swish,
a stately, monumental king
of meadow and a murmuring stream,
in haze concealed, a misty dream,
a graceful monolith 'twould seem,
cloaked in the blue-grey hush.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2013
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment