Sunday, November 15, 2009

Night's anapaest...


Listen

The passing night air
stirred the potpourri
of fragrant dreams.
Songs of cricket in dark bushes,
the soft hum of rustling leaves.


Stillness

The night stood still
with its dark hair disheveled,
the silence held captive
in its flagrant folds.

The moon dropped silver coins
into her begging bowl,
with barbed discretion.

2 comments:

Gerry Boyd said...

Beautiful words. Bravo!

Nazia Mallick said...

Thank You Gerry!

A hearty welcome, and Thank You very much for joining- The abyss of not being.