Dust Storm Poem by james watkin

Dust Storm



In pinkish tones of boiling
Rolls the desert air.
From where fiery galah
Sun-procreated are;
And gear, rusty-fair.

Neon-lit, that stair-climbed is
City's tidal mark.
Higher for what adjusts
In each year's greeds and lusts
This hour's wrathful dark.

feb.8 '83

Sunday, June 30, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: city,weather
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james watkin

james watkin

Melbourne Australia
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