Sunday, 26 April 2015

Owls Class poems

THE MIST

The mist is a floating ghost,
Translucent and moist.
Wavering in the dark damp air,
So faint, so faint, no sound you hear,
It's like a mouse scattering along the floor,
It throws spit at you so you are drenched,
Which turns the plain sky into a ghostly scene,
Hail is like ice falling down on you,
The wind is like a referee blowing his whistle,
The rain is like bullets raining down on you.

And when he starts to relax,
His excitement starts to die down,
When the sun comes back out to play,
He melts to the floor,
He'll come back out another day.

By PR

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