The Shed Poets are currently working on a fourth collection of poems. There are just a few:
As black clouds gather
rain spits tinny drops
on the empty watering can,
butterflies dart frantic for cover.
The birds have gone quiet,
thunder prowls along the ridge,
as black clouds gather
a rocking girl stops up her ears,
the post man pedals past
mumbling
half forgotten prayers
under his breath
as black clouds gather
I dream tonight
you are beside
me in the bed
I turn over quietly
not to disturb your sleep
stretch a gentle arm
Around your shoulder
hub empty air where
your firm flesh should be
as though a hare
has loped over the edge
a heron’s flown form
its familiar tree.
Bald eagle
An old cottontree traces trunk and limbs,
skeletal, across bare blue winter sky,
a bald eagle, blacksheen cloak, white hood
perches on the highest twig.
The sacred bird looks over his America,
land older than the united states.
Once it was prairie home to the red-man,
crossed by pioneers on Waggon Road inching West.
The Big Dry Creek flows still a slow stream.
Tumbleweed hurtles by as always
prairie dogs whoop their sundance, now
coyotes keep shy distance as tarmac
and rubber tyres crisscross this plain,
the stripmall, Mc Donalds, the village new-planted.
Does he notice us purring by in the red mustang.
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