top of page

Craig Lincoln



fingers stiff and cold

as they are I cannot write

yet to write I must

I warm them now as I can

still they refuse my intent

rainbow orbs floating

suspended before our eyes

stolen by the wind

dazzling us beneath the sun

myriad colours soon gone

the sun above

morning on the pond

the sun below

morning on the pond

begin the day

dust fills the sky

blown in from across the west

my eyes water my nose runs

all I do is sneeze

damn the wind

a writers loss

words spilled upon the page 

to soon away

others to claim for their own

shared but not returned

bottom of page