The wind is high
And the clouds move quickly
Across the greying sky.
A lone bird flies,
A haunting sound
To its mournful cries.
It hangs in the air …
The anticipation of something
Yet to bare.
Anticipation – a poem
The wind is high
And the clouds move quickly
Across the greying sky.
A lone bird flies,
A haunting sound
To its mournful cries.
It hangs in the air …
The anticipation of something
Yet to bare.
Earth Mother Nature Lover 