The Moya View
the wind is dying in the umbral night all aroundthe small bridge becomes the canal’s umbrella weaving a shy blue garment for the waters,a silvery gown across the imponderable blue the moon glides free, an argent shadowthe rain dove purls a plaintive lay, drenching the darkening streets with a drowsy kissin these hours of tears
Superlative. The last stanza is the best you have written!
Leave a Reply