Clouds; glassy-eyed, graze horizons: silently munching, ennui building.
We count out sheep with eager fingers – one, two and three.
Street lamps warp and shimmer: a mystery permitted by a master.
Necks, thankfully free from sunburn – courtesy of makers Mister Three.
Millepedes! Submission. Plumpness. Their charming virtues?
A one-handed weakness handed to birds, who fly past poplar trees.
Trees – wan curve here; rough-shod skin there. Parrots voice raucous displeasure.
The tender inspection of his wrist reveals a gothic inscription of number “3”.
© Zelda Reville
Day 18 and the ghazal form seems a good way to end a lovely Friday evening.