Twelve Poem by Kevin Eaglesfield
Twelve
Picturesque liquid charm.
Green swathed beauty and sleepy peace.
Wordsworth leant on his stick,
Wafted by rich turned loam,
Cradled in the palm of peaks
While all of nature fluttered.
Another man leans on his stick,
Screws it all,
As though the peaks
Have closed their fingers.
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5/17/2024 4:50:11 AM # 1.0.0.1119
This is very beautiful, I felt as if(in my understanding) you were saying where one man graces another man destroys... and in one way burdens the life surrounding him. I was truly awakened. This is beauty in a rich demonstration.