By brian francis
A row of pigeons seen through glass
upon a wire of ragged black.
A dreary day of clouds and wind,
of fallen leaves, and reddened cheeks.
Gray skies threaten their stolid mass.
The chill bites deep and seeks a draft.
Wool and wood will fight, protect
Keeping all cozy and warm.
Crystal windows distort the view.
A row of dots, just barely seen,
huddled closer against the wind,
as though, together, they will withstand.
The crack of mesquite within the stove,
the water steeping Earl Grey.
A bit of cream and sugar too,
a day, alone, to wile away.
Copyright ©2021 brian francis
by brian francis
I watch the sun rise, and pass on overhead,
And I see the others flying south again.
I wish that I could go, but I’ll stay here instead,
my broken wing and I fighting against the wind.
Winter is coming; the leaves are turning brown,
the nights are getting cooler, and darkness lingers on.
Low clouds on the horizon are telltale of the storm.
Whispers beckon in the wind coming from the north.
I feel it as it touches me, the cold, cold hands of fate.
I know that I can’t get away, so I’ll lay here and wait.
While on wings far overhead, the others pass me by,
Oh, how I want to join them, but my broken wing can’t fly.
Cold rain falls upon my back; cold wind blows in my face.
Soon the numbness touches me, then soon the light will fade.
Then I will cast away this shell, its broken wing and all,
To start on a new journey, I will fly into the sun…
Copyright ©2020 brian francis
By brian francis
Seasons pass to fall from summer.
Life grows still and forests slumber.
Reds, Yellows, and browns from green
the passing moments of life, unseen.
Leaves that fall to blanket the ground
Moments lost cannot be found
Fires smolder in the morning’s cold
The scent still lingers pungent bold
Steamed up windows, crystal panes
outside, the chilly country lanes.
Coffee warms a deep-chilled soul.
Crisp, clear is the church bells toll
Copyright © 2020 brian francis