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then the azure sky
stirs
and after her languid night
wraps herself in yellow bows.

flocked, ingres-like, they lie.
shirrs,
patterns of limpid light;
the earth strewn with ochre throws.

lambs bleat happy sighs.
curs
greet the suckling daylight,
rising, colored in her glow.

dappled arms reach high.
firs,
forget the oldest blight,
and east to west she does flow.

furtive glances, shy
hers,
wash their evening’s delight,
forgetting the ancient blow.

and crisp swaying rye
purrs
hellos to winding heights,
greetings unremarked by doe

old men set to pry
errs
from clay encased in spite;
it’s, unmoved by sweat or dough.

then payne’s gray sky
whirs
and after her lively flight
wraps herself in darkest woe.

© 2017 rl bussél

This entry was posted in poetry.
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