Tiny D-Day
The morning air was thick with dandelion seeds,
slung underneath their feathery white parachutes,
drifting gently in the breeze,
like a thousand paratroopers
dropping behind enemy lines.
I write poetry like fire reads the newspaper.
slung underneath their feathery white parachutes,
drifting gently in the breeze,
like a thousand paratroopers
dropping behind enemy lines.
I write poetry like fire reads the newspaper.
posted by Hughes. at 10:26 pm
3 Comments:
That's strangely moving, Hughes. Well done :-)
'ello Fiona, how's life in the Vegas of the North (Wales)?
Vegas? Pontins more like :-)
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