adventures in dysthymia

Saturday, May 11, 2013

May, a poem

May

May arrived on a murmur of bees
and distant mowers. The wordless rains
of night had carried Spring away

and a pungency of privet
now frames the day, stinky-sweet snow
bending to a bramble embrace.

There is no purpose in such a day.
It dozes. It dreams beyond its fences
into fields of the fresh-turned future.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

A bit of verse, just to prove I'm not totally vegetating here...

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