It is bewitching this wild winter sky
that swirls livid coils past the window pane.
Rolling, twisting billows of grey that cry
to merge, blend, before spiralling again;
unfolding, captured in a rigid frame.
The base slices fractal branches of three
ancient oaks that charcoal across the grain.
But the sky tumultuous tumbling free
pulls on walking boots, jumpers, grabs the key;
sweeps me buffeted beyond the fence
swept wayward towards the familiar trees
swaying beneath rootless magnificence.
There blown high amidst the gathering storm
the pointless miseries of life are torn.
Comments about this poem (Blown High by Diana Rosser )
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