Poetry



White Things


Late last night I was wandering about
in that big empty field out past the motorway.
I noticed that I was surrounded
by a huge flock of baby vultures.
Thousands of fluffy white hatchlings
sat at my feet and stared up at me
with quiet yellow eyes.
I thought to myself,
"Mother likes white things,
perhaps I should bring one home."
But Mother likes birds in trees


@1997 Scarlet Ross



Poem #32


He's fine, he's always fine.

He eats his chicken soup,
He doesn't sleep very much.
He sits and stares at the door.

We used to draw shapes in the sand
and dream beneath the rusty framework
of the old swingset.
Now he just sits and stares.

He's fine.


@1997 Scarlet Ross






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