Here is a hill beneath a tree.
Sad hummock. You remember me.
We have sat and played together.
You, fingering the wind. Shivering.
I in your lap, blowing daydreams.
Call back the days, we need them.
No, they are buried in the nettles.
A
bird, plummetting across the vast air,
Tells a November romance to her ears,
Shrilly, with cascading cadences.
Under the drop of the hills a mist collects,
To creep slowly out, as the sun drops into red.
We cannot have one day forever.
Freda
Davis 2009 |
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