My sixtieth birthday
I saw my sixtieth birthday fallinto dark water-ring destruction
where gulls and storms install
their constant introduction.
No herons ascend, nor heave
with wet feather memory
of years I've had to leave
just to continue my history.
Access is gained by goodbye,
swirling years of serendipity,
by the falling birds of why
and the rest of all lost veracity.
Sixty years of passing by
chapels, graves gone and who
is left behind to fly;
it's but me, a midnight crow.
Poetry by Bob
Read 642 times
Written on 2009-08-18 at 23:04
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by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
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