Words| This Season

By Charles Kinuthia

I see it,

In the clouds,

The swirling flow of dark grey ink,

Infesting the once pure white cotton,

Destroying the wondrous shapes I saw,

When my imagination freed itself from its chins,

Sitting on a green carpet of grass,

A book lay beside me,

That I had grown tired of reading,

I could smell it too,

A smell all too familiar ,

But elusive to memory nonetheless ,

A smell that calls to action all souls it chances upon,

Birds and mice,

Dogs and felines,

And people alike,

A warning,

To seek comfort beneath a roof,

Or the warmth of companions if they would,

I felt it,

As the dark grey ink was filtered by the cotton in the sky,

Leaving only colourless drops of cold liquid to descend,

Ascending in pace and rhythm,

Discriminating not against the creatures below,

So I stood,

Drenched book in hand,

Amidst the chaos of hasty feet,

To make my way home

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