Scrawling a line on | 'the blue cottage in the woods' | is,
Blowing a raspberry at | 'the uncanny effervescence, and' | the 5,322.5 other homes,
Living the | 'the fantastic wildness, that lies' | simple in suburbia
—there's a paragraph | 'in wait for you', | patiently poised,
Like a dollar lost to the lawn, wasting,
On each lily in my back garden.
Wish to pluck one?
Stride six from the backdoor
—hhhhhh, the retirement timber will coo,
One push and it is as eager as a child in a swing,
Five on date days,
Well, until Eau de month-soaked 5 weeks, 3-day grass,
Is knocked down to second-class,
Only a great leap evades the puddle-y part.
And I could say, 'the pelouse is always perfectly trim,
Snipped by fairies and stalked by neighbouring gnomes,'
But why fib?
The neighbour's gnome is a true gent,
With a penchant for moving whenever the workers are done,
I wonder, will this house half-done be blue?
I need only pluck another lily or two.
YOU ARE READING
Waiting for the Rain to Fall
PoetryPoems that twine thread around the broken bits of a soul, that fling umbrella lips into beaming buckets and kind of just make you want to say, "life is beautiful, isn't it?" - a totally unbiased review from me, the author.
