Postcard to Grey

How solemn the breastplates of soot
on the sides of old buildings.

How hard the rind; how the mouth
whittles away to get to its sweet.

How like a rumpled quilt, these overcast skies
above clumps of streaked magnolias.

How the train moves forward on the track,
how its whistle departs in the other direction.

How blind to the rain, these small
prisms of light that fracture at our feet.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Landscape, with Returning ThingsNot Yet There →

3 Comments


  1. I love that about the train departing one way, the whistle the other! And this sense of brightnesses and sweetnesses hidden away, found by cracking through encrustations. & of course I think about gray sky all the time, living where I do :-)

    Reply

    1. And I love the reading you’ve given the poem, Dale… “Encrustations” !!! Now I’ve never been to your neck of the woods but some folks tell me it is very similar in some ways to my hometown in the Philippines (Baguio City); we had monsoons that lasted so long, sometimes we didn’t see the sun for a month.

      Reply

      1. :-) Not seeing the sun for a month happens here from time to time, but it’s usually a far gentler rain than that.

        Reply

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