Taking his river walk
Watched as wind hooked water
An otter come from hiding
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~
Listen to a spoken word version @