In this slow stretch of August
between rains, I rest my case
barely moving from this place
watching droplets run through dust.
In this slow stretch of August
the glass casts a frozen face
deadpan as our last embrace.
Some discernment of disgust
in this slow stretch of August
memories of a fruitless chase
love without the touch of grace.
Stifled now my wanderlust
in this slow stretch of August
For Grace’s MTB prompt: we are tackling the Ballata poetry form with its three set stanzas, two rhymes and a refrain. I’ve opted for the Italian heptasyllabic meter but unlike the literal translation of Ballata did not quite find the dance on the 6th syllable
PoetryPix 