This poem was born out my attempts to wrangle something in iambic pentameter, still not sure if I have it down right technically but I like it.
I composed it on my evening walk, which usually would have been easy, as I walk with an mp3 player that has a record function.
I have, however, been doing longer walks, the end result being zero battery.
So I had to hold each line in my head as I worked out the words and metre for the next . Not as hard as I thought it would be, and perhaps testament to the power of patterns to help in memorising oral compositions.
Anyway I'll stop blathering.
Gold to withered grey
The fields have gone from gold to withered grey
The sky’s a rainless dome of pastel blue
Eucalypts loose their limbs with sweet regret
Clench-toothed, hard-lipped, the farmer breathes her curse
And the wise Elect, reign from feathered nest
Fiddling fools, their Get must learn to live on dust
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