Quadrille 3: At the dawning


At the dawning,

summer morning,

without warning

the roses bled.

The blackbird’s song

sounded wrong,

notes filled with dread.

In the dew,

a hint of you,

and the words you’d said.

They’ll never dry,

though the sun climbs high,

and the night has fled.


Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

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