#WritcoPoemPrompt120
The wind carried words through the sky
that blew thee,
Lying on a velvet swing,
Swinging under a tree,
Whilst waiting for the King,
A perfect way to fly.

The golden book in thy lap
and flowers in thy hair,
Whispered words float
through windwhiped air,
Swinging legs so thee wrote,
o' such a wonderful nap.

When the King arrives,
not a whispered sound say,
He strides right past,
On his own merry way,
With worries of being last,
like all the bees in the busy hives.

Then off to work thee must scurry,
Triumphant over the day,
Now scrub and clean,
No time at all to play,
They ask what thee mean,
Thy reply,
Hurry hurry.

© addiworks