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.
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Author:
Fränz Müller (
Offline) - Published: June 4th, 2025 07:56
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: Damaso
Offline)
Comments2
Used to watch the beach when the Portuguese Men of War would be blown by the wind to wash up on the beach. I thought of this with this poem. A lovely write.
Great write
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