by Catherine Johnson @CatherinePoet
Bird’s feet casserole.
“That must be early morning fog cause my feet aren’t burning, are yours?”
The stream swallowed up the sun and escaped through the bushes.
The sleeping giant’s hairy nose twitched
as a delicious smell wafted by. (I seem to have read waft everywhere this week and now I’m writing it. It’s the week of the waft!)
Have any poems wafted into your minds looking at these pictures?
With silver coils and shimmering shroud,
what is that wafting through this caw convention
on this fine meandering Monday?
Mist on high in a deserted land?
A mystery of days gone by?
or the whiff of a new dawn?
copyright of us lot