Home Poetry Harmattan

Harmattan

187
1
SHARE

This morning’s weather
is the bed of a hurting lover.

Temperature candidly cold.
A chill never been told.

The sun refused to rise…
to me it’s not a surprise.

She was covered in a blanket.
Apparently asleep, you can bet.

The arrival of a harmattan
with style so spartan.

This weather is clearly no fun;
for a capable cover we run.

Obviously, we’re vulnerable.
Our bodies boldly incapable.

The cold caved in in cascades;
it hurts like a sharp blade.

Impatiently, we expect her exit.
We hope she’ll suddenly quit.

avatar
Sort by:   newest | oldest | most voted
Gabriella Swem
Member

Nice write-up

wpDiscuz