De Winter

It isn’t a dream,

Yet it isn’t a memory.

Along the flowering path,

A lilting tune surrounds me.

 

So that I may glide and be called lovely.

In this moment of which I now exist.

Someone else felt these words before me.

In order that I may slip in and out of time.

 

To live in the impressions,

Of what might have been yours.

And though it isn’t a memory,

It is to me that this belongs.

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One thought on “De Winter

  1. This appears a deceptively simple poem because of it’s accessible language and disarms the reader with it’s gentility but like your other poems it is powerful message proffered in the palm of a velvet glove. Well done.

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