Poem -

The Endlessly Blessed Mill

Weather patterns, baby.

Hushing gently against the sound of my relief, I can hear the sea chords wild with half-dusted eminence.

Staring darkly into this cloud, I have to admit: nothing turns best as conundrums in the copse half-delinquent.

Statisticians ventilate the stabbing sapphire stall that wheezes and thrives on a tide-by-tide circuit for uncoiled demolition sets.

The far radio is clear to me this morning.

I might have something to say, after all.

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Chris Bond

Interesting! Love the flow of the words !