Poem By Beryl Stockman

The sky is like a drive-in dream,
Pylons laced together against a watery sun,
And every angle, every corner turned,
Brings scribbled clouds washed in aethereal light,
White wool formations above a frozen land.

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Other poems of STOCKMAN


Every year grey streets return and grey tones on brown,
Damp seeps through to everything,
And someone sits in a doorway forbidden to go in.


The wind cuts sharply last night snow fell,
Now branches bare dark bones to a frozen sun,

Seagulls perch and fly above the line of the rooftop,


Our dreams touch
Forming criss-cross panes of light,
I search the maze
For the right answer to your question