Rambles: Poetry

(photo: my crappy iPhone camera)

A little patch of sun before the clouds and snow and gloom threaten again. Loved the twisted shapes of the dried vegetation on the iron gate.
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The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

--T.S. Eliot, Rhapsody on a Windy Night