Craig Lincoln

Australia

​

​

 

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

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​