Wednesday, 28 April 2010

Sign



At the pale edge

of morning,
habit stumbles forward,
but the shape and colour
of yesterday
are a dead flower
trodden into the pavement -
regret's uneasy stain
the only signpost
to another day.

6 comments:

liliannattel said...

That is a thought provoking poem, Jean.

Pica said...

(o)

Reading the Signs said...

(o)

Fire Bird said...

I like this
'habit stumbles forward'
yes

Dale said...

Oh, that's superb. I always feel that way, after a retreat.

diana said...

wow