The sky is tickled pink
By impish clouds
That somersault and wink
Like lively clowns.
The morning sun applies
A saffron glow
To everything that lies
In shade below.
The wind adroitly tames
With combs and clips
The stubborn twisty frames
Of eucalypts.
And then you hear a sound
That’s far from bland:
Delightfully unbound
And out-of-hand,
It makes you jump and grin,
And, quite unplanned,
You have arrived: you’re in
Galah-lah-land.
galah
© Copyright: Людмила Прасад, 2023
Свидетельство о публикации №123072300389
Свидетельство о публикации №123072300389
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