Silent November
He rides on silent wings
Hen hawk in November skies
And preys on warm and furry things
As the old year dies.
Bleak and dwarfed, wind-slanted,
Stark and bare the tree.
Blackened earth, hill-canted
Sleeps, and waits for me.
Robert Ernest LaRock (1920-1978)
posted by rel @ 5:43 PM
6 comments
6 Comments:
This poem sends shivers up my spine and creates images of lost and lonely things. Have you already posted some history of your Dad? If not, would you?
Very dark, but in a good way. It's quite lovely.
wind-slanted, hill-canted - your father had a real gift.
Remi this is a great piece the emotions are dark but an excellent piece. Once again want to thank you for dropping by my blog and feel free to stop by anytime.
A surreal feel to what is seemingly quiet.
your words sound fun,
cute poem!
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