The day is dull, but still with flash,
As it’s been captured in a split;
A raindrop stuck before the splash,
The world has lurched to halt while here I sit.

The clouds don’t budge across the reach
As Wind has sat for tea with Death.
No crawling waves ascend the beach;
The planet’s petrified within this breath.

The waters of the River’s lungs
Have held their heaving sighs before
They climb the marshes ladder-rungs
And gloss the golden green that grows galore.

The lighting of this nature stage
Has faltered not, while slow, I write;
And though the day grows old like age
I have begun to doubt the fall of night.

I wish to capture this moment,
And hang it somewhere I can see;
Remind me of this time so bent,
This painted, empyrean tapestry.

Alas, have I no skill with oil,
And easels lend no ease to me;
While angled shades I often spoil,
Thus blind attempts are my photography.

But I can take my shot with word –
The tongue will show this aesthetic;
This view, not seen – but instead, heard –
A landscape captured by the phonetic.

 

 

 

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