The old lisp

I hear, as if

on a grey day.


If all I have is through,

the pool moves.


Un-tuck me


at the scribble

of feathered wrist;


and dribble

at God’s window-pane.


Gust is the scrawl

I see as wonder;


crippled at the hillside.


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Vicky Curtin

Author: Vicky Curtin

I am a poet who paints and draws - originally from Auckland; now living in the Waikato.

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