March 15, 2018


The old tin rooster on the shed
waits patiently to sing its song.
The trees are quiet, wind is dead.
Soon dawn will break – it won’t be long.

The air is calm, the sky is red,
but perched up high for all to see
without a wink of sleep our friend
maintains his outpost rigidly.

The breeze begins to cross the plain.
It starts up gently, then it grows.
The stoic, weathered weathervane
without a warning stirs and crows.

No comments:

Post a Comment

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
- Lord Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam