Sunday, September 14, 2014

In the ragged heath

Clouds in the west are piling high
like sea-foam on a vast ocean,
like cresting waves in slow-motion
washing across the autumn sky.

The oaks battle the undertow,
the birches whisper in the wind;
the alders burgeon as they bend,
waving druid-wands to and fro.

And like gypsy-orphans, you and I
lose ourselves in the ragged heath,
out on the moors which lie beneath
the silent breakers passing by.

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