Wanderer II

Above my head the wind just blows
strange music to my ears,
its tentacles then tease my nose
and later there are tears.
A raven, flying like the crow
direct without detouring
its feathers black against the snow
its childish cries alluring.
I walk because I must succeed
in finding the blue flower
inside my satchel, grandma's mead
has turned and gone off sour.
And should you, on your voyage then
encounter one whose laughter
fills all the valleys, to Cayenne
with pink forever after..........................

poem by Herbert Nehrlich
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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