Ian Bowen

Static As The Ink In A Dead Poet's Pen, - Poem by Ian Bowen

Here in this flurry of freezing fluff of flakes,
Those last-leaf trees, tremble
In a snow-gliding wind.
Bowing grasses, soon to be interned
In drowning drifts,
Take their last look at heaven.

Wild life, now hides in the warming straw
Of their knowledgeable labours,
For they knew the signs in the roof of a sky
and the thickness of new fur coats.

The lake, comatose in skins of ice,
Static as the ink in a dead poet's pen,
Where gangs of blustering snow, bully the greenery
Like a great camouflaging chameleon of natures ways.

Soon, icicles inch by inch will threaten
To pierce the soft heads of walkers,
And we will all become black dots...

To those... who watch from a distance.

Listen to this poem:

Comments about Static As The Ink In A Dead Poet's Pen, by Ian Bowen

  • Amy Marie (2/10/2010 9:35:00 AM)

    I like the last line in the third verse and I like dead poets ;) Well done ;) (Report) Reply

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
Read all 1 comments »

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Poem Submitted: Wednesday, February 10, 2010

[Report Error]