Willow
Loose green tendrils drooping low
kiss the soft green earth, the bough
kneels with the wind
as if in prayer, a penitent,
so humble, so predictable,
like others of its kind. 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 2016
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment