his thoughts

the breeze should blow

he thought

the trees
at their tops

back and forth

with grace
they moved like dancers

a cotton ball
he teased apart
into strands
held high
in his hand
until the breeze caught them
in a flutter

and then released

scudding white
thin clouds

he thought

a sunset sky

and some colour

a scudding thought
of white
amid the hues
of his deliberation

© Frank Prem, 2017

November 2017 Poem #34: forgotten : the night

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