Winds Poem by james watkin
Winds
Of an allied firm, to our own
Loose-handed porters are they;
Who are deployed, where everything
Is hearty flung, they convey.
Looking for sketches, passable
Their pathology's profile
Does more than fill in the spaces
Winds' knowledge, when to compile.
Which monstrous cheer, which madman's bliss
First, for what of it upsprings
Ere that storm behind, we suspect.
That spat out gall, hard-hailing's.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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8/21/2025 3:53:03 PM # 1.0.0
