River Bleak


Gray desolate

pitter, patter spit,

cold and crimson

on the breeze,

twilight-lit


Forget me nots

lining the river

as the rapids rise.

The tiny pedals shiver.

How to get across,

This river -


Doves do not

make nests over here.

The crows only jeer

and caw

in fear.


2016


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