gravity 189
He ran like the thing itself
across the lazy hills where
the cows once lay just before
sunset licked the pines above
Lindsay’s field.
He ran slow as a wheeze
in October’s deep chest,
pumping his spindly arms,
through wild moustache grass
un-mown since late June.
He ran like the gentle hush
that falls over the field after
midnight, and his feet were
like the hands of an old clock
finding their way.
He ran like the thing itself
across the lazy hills where
the cows once lay just before
sunset licked the pines above
Lindsay’s field.
He ran slow as a wheeze
in October’s deep chest,
pumping his spindly arms,
through wild moustache grass
un-mown since late June.
He ran like the gentle hush
that falls over the field after
midnight, and his feet were
like the hands of an old clock
finding their way.
3 comments:
Excellent poem.
Beautiful! I love the feel of this one, the way it carries me through the poem.
Warren
Tim Peeler's work sings! Glad you featured him.
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