It's four-thirty in the morning
And the dawn breaks across the sky
Creating a time for passage.
North, East, South and West
join in the vortex
that becomes the new day.
And so more need for the soft as a feather
bed on a grey cold morning.
Our heroine retreats to her cave
spinning through the rocks and boulders
of hard day light
Spinning toward the centre ever outward
red tide creeps across the sky like a pox
and yet the yellow morning
light sings a promise of dew
and foxgloves
poisonous and beautiful
About the Creator
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More stories from Janet Theny and writers in Poets and other communities.
Belle of the Bayou
Bad move, cher. Not just the slip of her kitten heel on the rainy February cobblestones in the Fourth Ward. She got caught snooping. Detective Deleon clucked and strutted like a rooster in his rush to clear her from the scene, waving cigar smoke to and fro as he gesticulated amid the thick air of the speak easy. An experienced crime reporter, Marie knew better than to let the coppers catch her on the wrong side of the line, but curiosity had gotten the better of her.
By Maia Gadwall the metAlchemist5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
I love your vivid imagery here!