Thursday, 12 April 2007

Sawmill by Taylor Graham

Gone the west wind’s lilt
and laughter, the forest-sighs
of trees

as twisted woodgrain meets
the screaming blade
and wallboards tremble

at the exact moment
late afternoon sun comes
angling through

an upper window, motes
go flying in light-
struck splatters,

a galaxy that swirls
and settles
sawdust on the floor.


Taylor Graham, California, USA

3 comments:

Crafty Green Poet said...

I love the sounds in this poem though i hate to think of trees being cut down!

Brian said...

I like the sights, sawdust motes are beautiful.

Rethabile said...

The sounds do it for me.