A National Park Poem by james watkin
A National Park
With God's white-gloved treatment were
Its artefacts layed out.
Fog-thick, He bent down through
Its museum's domed clue
For whom, erect, now do
Tread dumbfoundered about.
Even winds of their peurile
and rattling commotion
Restrain themselves. From their
Respective shelves' woodware
Will each slide unaware
Fruit and feather - anon.
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: nature
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4/24/2024 7:07:36 PM # 1.0.0.1119
