I never speak ill of the dead
it’s those who are alive
I worry about.
The sun, giving too much warmth
for the time of the year
and how we never seem
to fully enjoy it.
On windless days
I find myself gazing
into troubled water.
If the branch on which
a bird sits,
breaks. Will it fall?
(c) Leen Raats
You like my poetry? I have a poetry collection coming up at the Poetry Lighthouse. If you want to receive an email when the book is published, just drop me a message below and I’ll be sure to let you know!
Leen writes 
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