Lavender,
In silvery swathes
Of purple spires,
Marks midsummer
With every scented
Brush-past.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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I believe the sound here is called sibilant. Am I right? Whatever it’s called, I think it was well done in making me imagine the wind going through the feilds
I borrowed your word sibilant in my next poem – thanks for the inspiration.
I don’t own the word :p But I get what your saying, and I’m flattered.
Ooo nice. I haven’t ever used sibilant before. I shall have to find a poem for it. Good word and just right! Thanks.