Tuesday, May 23, 2017



The old writer walked around.
Her pencil fell to the ground
and landed without a sound.
She conjured words so profound,
a poem she thought would astound.
Her pencil could not be found.
Sadness settled in her heart.
The lost art was what would hound.

This is a Welsh form: cyrch a chwta.


Follow me on Twitter or click the blue Follow Button to follow this blog.

No comments:

Post a Comment