As if in flames,
Although the Lord forgot to use the paints,
The whole above is menacingly calm,
It quickly hides the parting glimpse of fading sun.
A moment's lull, so heavy, dull.
And now it being just the time
To settle in a refuge
For those who hasn't failed it to find;
The very little thing is holding tight
Sappy blades and leaves behind.
Whether it's a tiny ant, a hasty bug,
Or a motley- winged transparent dragonfly;
Be it thick leafage in a grove
Or dark and deep and narrow hole
Nowhere. Not a rustle in the grass
Or any breath among the tops.
But here it goes.
A whitish arrow speared the belly with a roar
And let the vivifying water fall.
Before the storm
© Copyright: Серафима Соловьёва, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115052502346
Свидетельство о публикации №115052502346
Рецензии