Poetry
by Phil Brown
IN MY ROOM
In my room there is a poster
And, somewhere upper left centre
A small cabin where I chop wood
While smoke rises sunwards.
And in the foreground is a clear lake
Where a small trout slips and jumps
And creatures come to lap with pink tongues
The crystal wine. I watch quietly.
Sometimes I walk into the tall woods
And breathe the heavy pine scented air
Cleansing my lungs of cigarettes
And freeing forever my soiled sinuses.
I roam for miles over the emerald hills
Knee deep in dewy grass and sometimes
I stop At the top of a ridge to look back
Into my tiny room where I sit writing this.
by Phil Brown
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