Revolution was born in the roiled fields of France. The turning was here, with the surf in the vineyard. The twittering of swallows in the thatched eves, Chattering, like famished farmers in their smoky inns, The clinking of pottery tankards rousing blood, Fists flying in bluster after sinking a few more. The daylight charging down…
Day: September 13, 2020
Morning Haiku – 63
Sad face split Like the Conquered conker, In bits and floored.