On the railway-edge of
The borders of town,
January’s watchman lowers
Industrial warehouse evening shutters
On a wet gone-along day.
The dandelion string of streetlights
Splutters weakly at the darkness.
Beyond the last houses
A cold-feathered owl
Moths through the cold
And the steady, wide
Slow-motion lightning beams
That roll out from the full moon
Spread over calm, quiet
New-ploughed fields like the
Copper and diamond dreams
Of rare-frost spiders.
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Gunn4
“a cold-feathered owl” spreads his magic wings. Every line is its own poem. I love it.
I agree with theEnglishProfessoratlarge….
each line is filled with magick to write a poem or story in our minds…
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