Flying a kite for poetry.

Taking his river walk

Watched as wind hooked water

An otter come from hiding

Then disappear

Birds leap out of trees

Taking their place in the air.


The relentless rain

Drenching wild river bank flowers.

Taking his seat beneath trees shelter

His mind fixed in poetic form.

As long as there are the elements he thought

There could never be a mundane return.


He scavenged about, turning the screw

Feeling the warm and the cold of his surrounds

As dry as the nearby snail in his sheltered house

Covering his eyes he sat in silence

From his long rummaging with words

The poet observes that from the mist emerges a poem.

(c) Chris Black. September 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

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