In open space the wind does wander
without purpose, without glee
dreaming of the forest edge
the bending brush, the swaying tree!
Ocean waves o’er water dark
float along in restless sleep
its time to bide, to form the tide
on beaches white to crawl and creep.
The resting hawk, on ancient branch
sits preening, cleaning, making fresh
its killer face, its battle flag
anticipates the coming flesh.
-
Author:
Fränz Müller (
Offline)
- Published: June 4th, 2025 07:56
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 1
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.