Richard Pierce

Poetry

Half

The moon,

A half of what it was,
Glowers,
Ashamed,
A-hidden,
Behind the tops of roofs,
Of trees,
In silence.

Night closes

Around what shines,
A narrow cone
Of uncounted light,
Just an echo
Of the sun,
An unrehearsed refrain.

A rising,

The scent of
A million grasses
Cut down,
Rears into the mist.
A haze.
Tomorrow will be hot.

2 Comments

  1. beegirl

    13th September 2014 at 02:56

    Very lovely, Richard. As usual!

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