Down a Worn Path
Grown old, I think of her less often now,
But always when walking here at the edge
Of winter, fading light of first bright days.
She is that faint shimmering above a sun-
Warmed stone at the edge of the stream,
Staying and going into the cold night air.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 730 times
Written on 2012-02-20 at 18:59
|
Brian Oarr |
|
shells |
|
josephus |
|
Nils Teodor |
