Tipping

A figure stands in the field
It's cries heard all around
They are repetitive and
remind me of mourning
A wind blows
The figure stands
Silent
A new shadow moves towards it
The moon reflects its back
the lurker slides
and points a finger its way
ever so softly
With a mother's loving touch
It makes impact with the original
And tips it over.
The cow goes moo.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback