in greyest dawn...
misty morning dew upon widows of cowslips rise
and from the mountain side another bending of the wind
through myriads of gravestones and memories bewailed
in greyest dawn... they prevail

in greyest dawn...
shivers in the valley cross the rustic bridge
again their day begins
evocative images move through the swirling mists
so many shapes, so large and lumbering
theirs is not the thought of those under hoof
but of warmth and of light and of peace

in greyest dawn...
i watch simple life unfold
emissions of energy from every shape or sound
how they paint pictures on the canvas of our soul
my breath, languid, lost, wasted
like tears in rain

then eerie steamy silence again

I can't claim to be an expert on poetry but have you thought of publishing your poetry in a serious way if you have not already done so.

I haven't actually.. I've only been writing a few weeks but I'm so grateful of any criticism or help.