Awaiting Wanton Winds Poem by Paul Brookes

White sheets hang as if forlorn, no wind to capture
or push to formbillowing sails of an armada
bringing their flagging warp and weft to life,
to undulate and ripple like storm tossed lakes.

hanging liminal on linear lines waiting for windy animation
like white capped mountains, ready on slopesskiing
or white polar landscapes that blind.
quadrels waiting to be painted with Mona Lisa smiles
or Campbell soup tins, gratis imagination garish Monroe prints.

the sun hides behind gunmetal Japanese screen skies,
fey, ambient air becalmed on a stagnated breeze.
trees shadow them limp lime green leaves sag.
so they wait pegged and straight, white so white
dead albino flags waiting forlorn for a drying breeze.