Over ice
And under the bearded willows,
They trudge
With their cargo of sport.
And through the changes in light,
They wait.
When it's time to leave
By the glow from their lamps,
They do not see through the willows
A purer light.
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Under the Spanish Volcano
10 hours ago
3 comments:
I see them.
Depth, beauty, resonance....In the curves of the book pages echoed in the lower tree branches, in the pictorial and written light seen and unseen, the jolt offered by sport and by the foreground/background of book and landscape....My awkward footnote to D's 3 good words.
On the shore of Lake Geneva, where I was for a few days, you can see the unexpected.
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