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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