Position:Home>Poetry> Is this really a poem, or is it prose?

With holiday read in hand I lie
in a neglected sun-baked garden,
dotted with drooping daises
and dandelion clocks!.

As a constant reminder that this is Greece
nearby stand gnarled silver-green olive trees
the epitome of history and peace!.

Behind me is a crumbling white-washed wall!.
Cascades of white roses tumble like
a waterfall down its face filling the air
with a rare and delicate perfume!.

In the distance comes an insistent
coo of a dove
from the fir-clad hills above!.
Its call creating a soothing counter-melody
to the noisy sparrows,
gossiping and fighting in the fruit-free trees!.

So clear in the sky, as if just created,
I see Mount Olympus, home of the gods
in the majestic white clustering clouds,
painted on a canvas of an unreal blue!.
Its hue reflecting the turquoise serenity
of the timeless Aegean Sea!.

Across my vision swifts persistently swoop,
their flight an erratic dart and dive,
like paper aeroplanes tossed by a carefree child!.Www@QuestionHome@Com

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