Blanket

[DieterM]

Today feels like a blanket.
Someone has closed
Rain curtains on reality.
Dripping bushes stretch their roots
Up to a motley sky
And bury leafy heads
Into fat brown soil.
Fickle winds whistle
Like ripe kettles
Through cross-eyed streets.
The central heating exhales
Whiffs of burnt dust
And drowsy minutes
End in Friday yawns.

[Hawkman]

Really like this Dieter. Two tiny suggestions. First cut the definite article before, "fat brown soil", because you don't need it, and replace teapots with kettles. The analogy with teapots doesn't work as teapots don't whistle, but kettles do.

Love "cross-eyed streets" It's kind of weird, but just so right :)

Live and be well - H

[DieterM]

Hey Hawk, thankie thankie, especially the hint about the non-whistling teapots and the whistling kettles. Don't drink tea because I don't like the taste of it (though I'd love the romantic Britishness of 4 o'clock tea ;-)) so I couldn't know... Coffee-machines, that I do know, never whistle. And I agree about the weirdness of'em cross-eyed streets, but sometimes they just, you know, are ;-))

[Twota]

I enjoyed the day as well as the poem. :3