Memories


Memories of old England
moves the child's eye through woods
laid bare to November's gaze
a frozen sea of naked hills
dares the thought to wander
deep into the steep hidden valleys
of long lost summers.

Clean white water
was born like milk under stones
feathery fern called for more
and birds sang of being there
in green soporific shadows
and clear chlorophyll.

Cold rain ruminates
and darkness takes its toll.




Poetry by Bob
Read 865 times
Written on 2005-11-14 at 16:38

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