Crows fly lazily in the weak sun.
Red leaves are carried down the wind.
Running the cliff path I catch
The yellow Broom in my fingers.
A red sail far out at sea.
Rain and spray,
Hard grey rocks,
Bleached wood.
words, images and food for thought
Crows fly lazily in the weak sun.
Red leaves are carried down the wind.
Running the cliff path I catch
The yellow Broom in my fingers.
A red sail far out at sea.
Rain and spray,
Hard grey rocks,
Bleached wood.
