100 random words for any Sunday poets feeling too hot to look any further for inspiration, followed by the poem they gave me.
This ocean is dry
I watch the curved fall of a grey feather,
wind-cradled, while pigeons murmur lullabies,
and rain whispers, a waking dream,
where feet skim snow, skin tingles
with the sting of cold flakes, ice cracks,
but the sound bends back into the now,
the crisp tread is brown and brittle,
the sucked dry stalks of dead meadows,
and I skim sand-baked earth.
The waves of this ocean are billows of heat,
the sting woodsmoke, the smell of burning,
the patter of raindrops is the crackle of flames.
We are encircled by creeping fires,
the curved balancing feather falls,
caught in the wrong wind.