She’s losing sight, our old girl;
the filaments subsiding
to soft emeralds.
Yet her eyes still hold the reign
of bold, enveloping ribbons,
of blooming hurricanes.
She’s losing sight, our old girl;
the filaments subsiding
to soft emeralds.
Yet her eyes still hold the reign
of bold, enveloping ribbons,
of blooming hurricanes.
You remind me of Whitmans great poem : ‘ I think I could turn and live with animals they are so placid and self-contained’
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Taken as a compliment – thank you!
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