Wood-Smoke In Nostrils Poem by james watkin

Wood-Smoke In Nostrils



Wood-smoke in the nostrils.
A pall and a stench.
Suburb's rustic feelings
Now harder to quench!

Days of Autumn, not trailed
By which sign only
Is Death's, burnt-toned, but swirled
Out each burning tree.

Friday, April 3, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: autumn,death
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james watkin

james watkin

Melbourne Australia
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