 |
| Image Courtesy of foto76/freedigitalphoto.net |
Under the awning,
I'm safe from the sun,
But smothered by plastic,
With no where to run.
The air is not moving,
And spiders swing low,
From webs spun like cotton;
I don't even know.
Under the awning,
The rain cannot fall,
Rain rivers find pathways,
But no joy at all.
Under the awning,
Securely I stand,
But there is no adventure,
And the life lived is bland.
Written in response to Sunday Scribblings 2 writing prompt; Under the Awning...
One of the pleasures my wife and I had was to walk in the rain. Perhaps if under the awning doesn't feel right go out and feel the rain on your face. It is good to see you again here.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Old Egg! Good to be back...I thought of how suffocating it can be to be stuck under something when you want to be out and having fun playing. :)
DeleteThose low swinging spiders are ominous..perhaps the awning provides a temporary resting place..let us hope..a crisply constructed and insightful poem..well done!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Jae Rose! Can you tell I've been packing and going places in my house I haven't gone in years? :)
DeleteWhat a great, fun, atmospheric poem! It’s so rich with the images and emotions inherent to “awning experiences” that even remebrances of feelings and smells come to me. Inspired and skilfully penned, Tammie!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Zanzinece! We have a great bunch of writers on Sunday Scribblings 2...been missing it while so busy with life right at the moment. :)
DeleteI'm loving the lilt of this piece! What fun!
ReplyDelete:)
Delete