Fixing pots and pans with artisan hands,
A troubadours quill with poems to scribe
Wandering psychedelic mystic lands:
I way laid a silver haired soothsayer
On the eve of an emerald green day
I bid her to fore-say of what may come . . .
For eight long days she’d not a word to say.
Ferrous wheels turned the hues in her eyes
Subtle indigo blues, violets and red:
As rainbow butterfly’s filled yellow skies
And on the ninth day of the week she said.
See in my globe set in gold filigree
Dark clouds coming from a kings white tower
Libra must set her scales of justice
Play her trump card and balance the power.
Then diamond shapes fell across her bronze face
Her filligree globe she covered in lace.
© Julian Clarke 2017
I shall link this poem to Poets United for Sunday's panty.