In monsoon moments, all falls still -
sounds of curb flow and gutter spill.
A restful ease from the patter
as raindrops fall, hit, and splatter.
Of lost minutes, I take my fill.
By the window, chin on the sill,
I watch water far below rill.
A car passes, no birds scatter.
-In monsoon moments...
In dim mid-day, I feel a chill,
though Tropics, says the Barbet's trill.
I'm free - the Madness of the Hatter,
drowned out is the useless natter.
Though tempests may rage; all is still.
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged Monsoon, poem, poetry, Rondeau by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.-In monsoon moments...
