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.

 

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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