Phil Brown -  journalist . writer . poet

Phil Brown

journalist . writer . poet

articles . books . poems


by Phil Brown


The afternoon is like
a washed out impressionist painting.
The purple noon’s transparent might has been eclipsed
and now we enter that faded region
between noon and afternoon,
a bad land that is neither here nor there

Outside a high wind
chides hair, makes skirts billow like sails
while sensible creatures seek shade

Passing through this zone of nothingness
on the way to mid-afternoon is like
traversing a  featureless desert
on a horse with no name.
Sounds like a song?

But there is no music in me.

Back at my desk
I wait for time to pass
hoping against hope
that it will pass quickly.

I can see the blanched landscape outside
still being worried by the wind.
Clouds pass by like errant sheep.

When the sun finally sinks
 beyond the pale hills
I will be as grateful
as a painter.


by Phil Brown

Copyright © Phil Brown