En.Citatepedia^®.ro

In a Field on May Day

We lay within a bright yellow smear
of buttercups in a damp field in Suffolk
edged with Chantilly umbels of cow parsley
and our head and heart race ahead of themselves
as a May-Day wind that's half winter half summer
raises a swathe of goose bumps on your slight slim arms
that suddenly clamp the nape of my neck to crush
my face to yours and through my nostrils I can smell your
clean mouth and the old bonfire circle that's spiked with poppy seedlings celebrating the good fortune of their mineral rich home and in June their dark cherry plum flowers will slow passing cars and numb mouthed I break away first and fling myself down amongst the buttercups to study the tiny scattered brains of worm casts.

poem by Bob Dellar
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Buttercups

Tiny little buttercups
gloriously yellow and small
growing in abundance
a wondrous sight for all.

They said if I picked one of you
and held you under my chin,
a golden glow would shine
right upon my skin.

I did it as a child
when I would see them grow.
and also as an adult
alone, so no one would know.

Tiny little buttercups
I wait for you each spring.
How do you make that yellow glow
like no other flower can bring?

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Slow And Steady (Based on the Tortoise and the Hare)

As usual an argument
An argument arose
In the poppy field
Next to the red rose

It was between the mouse and the cat
(No worse enemies existed than that!)
In the end they had a bet
Whoever won, he would get
The poppy field for his own to live in
While the one who lost would be given
"Exile, banished from here forever! "
Said the cat (who really was very clever.)

The mouse thought: "What nonsense!
But it'll be ME who'll win
And that cat will have to live
In the garbage bins! "

But before the mouse could get a word out,
The cat who had been prancing about
Cleared his throat, "I declare!
The competition shall be judged by the hare.
We are going to have a magnificent race,
Poor mousie won't be able to keep up the pace! "

There mouse stood, flabbergasted as ever!
Really, that cat, was sly and clever,
He knew mouse couldn't run at all!
He'd just trip over his tail and fall!
But (though worried he was) he had to do it,
Yes, mouse had to go and prove it,
He would run faster than any cat,
He would run like the wind and knock- them- flat!

The next day dawned, pearly and white,
But the poor mouse was pale with fright!
As he stood in his place
Ready for the race
The cat yawned, as if bored with all this!
When the starting goose gave a hiss,
"Ready, set, GO! "Shouted the hare aloud
The cat ran fast, leaving behind a cloud
Of dust, and the mouse ran as fast as he could
"I'll win this race! I'd do anything to, I would! "

As the cat ran ahead he couldn't help but think:
"There's no way that the mouse can pass me! "
I got ahead in an eye's blink!
Why don't I settle down for a nap?
I have to run only one more lap,
I can rest my eyes for just a little while,
Mouse probably hasn't even run half a mile!
There don't seem to be any chances
Of mousie passing me, I'll win, I'll win! "
And he made quite a din.

The cat settled down in the shade,
Of a tree in a peaceful glade.
He slept soundly, till the mouse had gone on ahead
While the cat was snoozing on his primrose bed!

When the cat finally rose, it was just too late!
And though he ran fast (in a bedraggled state.)
He just couldn't make it, the mouse had got the lead
And crossed the finish line (leaving the cat in defeat! !)
The mouse had won, he'd proved Cat wrong,
Who walked away, singing a mournful song:
"I was boastful and full of myself, it's true
And now I've lost the race, I don't know what to do!
I'm sorry that I looked at mouse with scorn! "
And the cat traipsed by, looking forlorn.

" Dear Cat, you're looking blue, "
Said the mouse, "I feel sorry for you.
How about we divide the Poppy field
Between us, one half for me, the other for you? "

And of course the cat agreed!
He'd learned a lesson indeed!
"Slow and steady wins the race."
Said the mouse, in first place....

poem by by unknown author
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Gentle Winds

Green fields edged with hedgerows,
Wild flowers enticing the bees,
Yellow buttercups and daisies,
Undulate in the evening breeze.

Small shrubs and dark dense thickets,
Trees so tall, with branches stout,
Even they can move with alacrity,
When the air currents are about.

These gentle winds are refreshing,
And stir all nature's wondrous art,
They cool the heat of the evening,
And calm the beat of the heart.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Love in Twilight

There is darkness behind the light -- and the pale light drips
Cold on vague shapes and figures, that, half-seen loom
Like the carven prows of proud, far-triumphing ships --
And the firelight wavers and changes about the room,

As the three logs crackle and burn with a small still sound;
Half-blotting with dark the deeper dark of her hair,
Where she lies, head pillowed on arm, and one hand curved round
To shield the white face and neck from the faint thin glare.

Gently she breathes -- and the long limbs lie at ease,
And the rise and fall of the young, slim, virginal breast
Is as certain-sweet as the march of slow wind through trees,
Or the great soft passage of clouds in a sky at rest.

I kneel, and our arms enlace, and we kiss long, long.
I am drowned in her as in sleep. There is no more pain.
Only the rustle of flames like a broken song
That rings half-heard through the dusty halls of the brain.

One shaking and fragile moment of ecstasy,
While the grey gloom flutters and beats like an owl above.
And I would not move or speak for the sea or the sky
Or the flame-bright wings of the miraculous Dove!

poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
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Ballad of Another Ophelia

Oh the green glimmer of apples in the orchard,
Lamps in a wash of rain!
Oh the wet walk of my brown hen through the stackyard,
Oh tears on the window pane!

Nothing now will ripen the bright green apples,
Full of disappointment and of rain,
Brackish they will taste, of tears, when the yellow dapples
Of autumn tell the withered tale again.

All round the yard it is cluck, my brown hen,
Cluck, and the rain-wet wings,
Cluck, my marigold bird, and again
Cluck for your yellow darlings.

For the grey rat found the gold thirteen
Huddled away in the dark,
Flutter for a moment, oh the beast is quick and keen,
Extinct one yellow-fluffy spark.

Once I had a lover bright like running water,
Once his face was laughing like the sky;
Open like the sky looking down in all its laughter
On the buttercups, and the buttercups was I.

What, then, is there hidden in the skirts of all the blossom?
What is peeping from your wings, oh mother hen?
’Tis the sun who asks the question, in a lovely haste for wisdom;
What a lovely haste for wisdom is in men!

Yea, but it is cruel when undressed is all the blossom,
And her shift is lying white upon the floor,
That a grey one, like a shadow, like a rat, a thief, a rain-storm,
Creeps upon her then and gathers in his store.

Oh the grey garner that is full of half-grown apples,
Oh the golden sparkles laid extinct!
And oh, behind the cloud-sheaves, like yellow autumn dapples,
Did you see the wicked sun that winked!

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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On a windy night (in answer to T.S. Eliot)

I. It’s Midnight

It’s Midnight
and the wind brushes softly though my hair,
there are long drawn out shadows everywhere
under the street lamps and the bright light

is stringed out in white
beacon after beacon leading for some to somewhere
but to me it feels as if they are going nowhere,
as if this dark night

is endless without form or shape
and one lonely shadow is following me
while branches are caught in a macabre dance
and there’s a chill at the nape
of my neck and darkness wherever I see
while I walk as if in a trance.

II. Half past one

Half past one
and the spluttering street lump did mutter
“so you had your fun, ”
and no single word did I utter

and at my back fear was crawling
as if in the past night
I had done a unpardonable sin and wind was the singing
“do not look back” and above me the stars was bright

but a strange feeling was in me
as if something evil was following,
as if from it I would never be free
and I glimpsed back, in my daring caught a glance

of something without shadow sneaking behind
and I believed that it as a trick of the mind.

III. It was half-past two

It was half-past two
and while walking through the park
I did not have a clue
where I was going and the night was very dark

and a black thinned out cat sneaked past
with green glowing eyes
as if the tranquillity could not last
and all of the past goodbyes

where coming to my mind
of loved animals, friends and you
as if I was blind and never again to find
the place in the world where I belonged to

and with a leap of delight
the cat found something to eat in that night.

IV. The darkness washed over me

The darkness washed over me
falling like a old worn out cloak
and there were known stars that I could see
but with feelings wanted to choke

and it was half-past three
with a strange familiar howl in the wind
and the cat was eying me
as if in me it had find

a close compatriot
who is also a dweller in the night,
but in life I felt like a idiot
watching the bright

lights of cars passing in the distance,
praying for some kind of deliverance.

V. At four I was chilly

At four I was chilly
and did not want to wait in the park anymore,
the cat was still with me
purring much more in love with me than before

and I carried it while stroking it
as if I had found a new friend
and bit by tiny bit
I liked it and it was no fiend

but a tiny living thing
with shiny bright eyes burning
right through me and the wind did sing
the leaves on branches were still churning

and for a time I had company,
and it was great to be alive with something that loved me.

VI. The memory was crowding me

The memory was crowding me,
as if there was no escape
that on a similar night I did see
a glance of beauty peering from beneath a cape

and then it was somewhat chilly
not like now a summer night
and a strange passion did fill me
to see her full face in the bright light

but into the night she did disappear
with white cheeks and the fire of a eye
as if she was not meant to be near
and now with the sun in a bright sky

with a bird calling on its mate
I see her standing at the garden gate.

[Reference: Rhapsody on a Windy Night by T. S. Eliot.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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From Down The River

A HALF-BREED, slim, and sallow of face,
Alphonse lies full length on his raft,
The hardy son of a hybrid race.

Lithe and long, with the Indian grace,
Versed in the varied Indian craft,
A half-breed, slim, and sallow of face,

He nurses within mad currents that chase-
The swift, the sluggish-a foreign graft,
This hardy son of a hybrid race.

What southern airs, what snows embrace
Within his breast-soft airs that waft
The half-breed-slim, and sallow of face,

Far from the Gatineau's foaming base!
And what strong potion hath he quaffed,
This hardy son of a hybrid race,

That upon this sun-baked blistered place
He sleeps, with his hand on the burning haft,
A Metis-slim and sallow of face,
The hardy son of a hybrid race!

poem by Susan Frances Harrison
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From 'Down the River

Gatineau Point
A HALF-BREED, slim, and sallow of face,
Alphonse lies full length on his raft,
The hardy son of a hybrid race.

Lithe and long, with the Indian grace,
Versed in the varied Indian craft,
A half-breed, slim, and sallow of face,

He nurses within mad currents that chase–
The swift, the sluggish–a foreign graft,
This hardy son of a hybrid race.

What southern airs, what snows embrace
Within his breast–soft airs that waft
The half-breed–slim, and sallow of face,

Far from the Gatineau's foaming base!
And what strong potion hath he quaffed,
This hardy son of a hybrid race,

That upon this sun-baked blistered place
He sleeps, with his hand on the burning haft,
A Metis–slim and sallow of face,
The hardy son of a hybrid race!

poem by Susie Frances Harrison
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The Point Of View: I

I

There was never winter, summer only: roses,
Pink and white and red,
Shining down the warm rich garden closes;
Quiet trees and lawns of dappled shadow,
Silver lilies, whisper of mignonette,
Cloth-of-gold of buttercups outspread;
Good gold sun that kissed me when we met,
Shadows of floating clouds on sunny meadow.
In the hay-field, scented, grey,
Loving life and love, I lay;
By fresh airs blown, drifted into sleep;
Slept and dreamed there. Winter was the dream.

II

Summer never was, was always winter only;
Cold and ice and frost
Only, driven by the ice-wind, lonely,
In a world of strangers, in the welter
Of the puddles and the spiteful wind and sleet,
Blinded by the spitting hailstones, lost
In a bitter unfamiliar street,
I found a doorway, crouched there for just shelter,
Crouched and fought in vain for breath,
Cursed the cold and wished for death;
Crouched there, gathered somehow warmth to sleep;
Slept and dreamed there. Summer was the dream.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Buttercups and Daisies

I never see a young hand hold
The starry bunch of white and gold,
But something warm and fresh will start
About the region of my heart; -
My smile expires into a sigh;
I feel a struggling in my eye,
'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray,
Till rolling tears have won their way;
For, soul and brain will travel back,
Through memory's chequer'd mazes,
To days, when I but trod life's track
For buttercups and daisies.

There seems a bright and fairy spell
About there very names to dwell;
And though old Time has mark'd my brow
With care and thought, I love them now.
Smile, if you will, but some heartstrings
Are closest link'd to simplest things;
And these wild flowers will hold mine fast,
Till love, and life, and all be past;
And then the only wish I have
Is, that the one who raises
The turf sod o'er me, plant my grave
With buttercups and daisies.

poem by Eliza Cook
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I Told You

I told you the winter would go, love,
I told you the winter would go,
That he'd flee in shame when the south wind came,
And you smiled when I told you so.
You said the blustering fellow
Would never yield to a breeze,
That his cold, icy breath had frozen to death
The flowers, the birds, and trees.

And I told you the snow would melt, love,
In the passionate glance o' the sun;
And the leaves o' the trees, and the flowers and bees,
Would come back again, one by one.
That the great, gray clouds would vanish,
And the sky turn tender and blue;
And the sweet birds would sing, and talk of the spring
And, love, it has all come true.

I told you that sorrow would fade, love,
And you would forget half your pain;
That the sweet bird of song would waken ere long,
And sing in your bosom again;
That hope would creep out of the shadows,
And back to its nest in your heart,
And gladness would come, and find its old home,
And that sorrow at length would depart.

I told you that grief seldom killed, love,
Though the heart might seem dead for awhile.
But the world is so bright, and full of warm light
That 'twould waken at length, in its smile.
Ah, love! was I not a true prophet?
There's a sweet happy smile on your face;
Your sadness has flown - the snow-drift is gone,
And the buttercups bloom in its place.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Baby Tortoise

You know what it is to be born alone,
Baby tortoise!
The first day to heave your feet little by little from the shell,
Not yet awake,
And remain lapsed on earth,
Not quite alive.

A tiny, fragile, half-animate bean.

To open your tiny beak-mouth, that looks as if it would never open,

Like some iron door;
To lift the upper hawk-beak from the lower base
And reach your skinny little neck
And take your first bite at some dim bit of herbage,
Alone, small insect,
Tiny bright-eye,
Slow one.

To take your first solitary bite
And move on your slow, solitary hunt.
Your bright, dark little eye,
Your eye of a dark disturbed night,
Under its slow lid, tiny baby tortoise,
So indomitable.
No one ever heard you complain.

You draw your head forward, slowly, from your little wimple

And set forward, slow-dragging, on your four-pinned toes, Rowing slowly forward.
Whither away, small bird?
Rather like a baby working its limbs,
Except that you make slow, ageless progress
And a baby makes none.

The touch of sun excites you,
And the long ages, and the lingering chill
Make you pause to yawn,
Opening your impervious mouth,
Suddenly beak-shaped, and very wide, like some suddenly gaping pincers;
Soft red tongue, and hard thin gums,
Then close the wedge of your little mountain front,
Your face, baby tortoise.

Do you wonder at the world, as slowly you turn your head in its wimple
And look with laconic, black eyes?
Or is sleep coming over you again,
The non-life?

You are so hard to wake.

Are you able to wonder?
Or is it just your indomitable will and pride of the first life
Looking round
And slowly pitching itself against the inertia
Which had seemed invincible?

The vast inanimate,
And the fine brilliance of your so tiny eye,
Challenger.

Nay, tiny shell-bird,
What a huge vast inanimate it is, that you must row against,
What an incalculable inertia.

Challenger,
Little Ulysses, fore-runner,
No bigger than my thumb-nail,
Buon viaggio.

All animate creation on your shoulder,
Set forth, little Titan, under your battle-shield.

The ponderous, preponderate,
Inanimate universe;
And you are slowly moving, pioneer, you alone.

How vivid your travelling seems now, in the troubled sunshine,
Stoic, Ulyssean atom;
Suddenly hasty, reckless, on high toes.

Voiceless little bird,
Resting your head half out of your wimple
In the slow dignity of your eternal pause.
Alone, with no sense of being alone,
And hence six times more solitary;
Fulfilled of the slow passion of pitching through immemorial ages
Your little round house in the midst of chaos.

Over the garden earth,
Small bird,
Over the edge of all things.

Traveller,
With your tail tucked a little on one side
Like a gentleman in a long-skirted coat.

All life carried on your shoulder,
Invincible fore-runner.

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Field Of Life

Lost in my own eden,
all ground flat and even,
no hint of winter’s season.
Only the warmth of the sun,
and blossoms of cherry and plum,
not even a cloud on the horizon.

Here flowers and towering trees grow,
and here a bubbling stream does flow,
no sign of a flake or two of snow.
Here the sky is blue and bright,
not a single dark cloud in sight,
just a land of summer’s delight.

Lost in my own paradise,
an unfettered field of life,
with no unwanted sacrifice.
Only a place of true tranquillity,
where the winds of time blow free,
no matter what your status or ability.

poem by Dale Mullock
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A Process in the Weather of the Heart

A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.

A process in the eye forwarns
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Drives in a death as life leaks out.

A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light; the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled land.
The seed that makes a forest of the loin
Forks half its fruit; and half drops down,
Slow in a sleeping wind.

A weather in the flesh and bone
Is damp and dry; the quick and dead
Move like two ghosts before the eye.

A process in the weather of the world
Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child
Sits in their double shade.
A process blows the moon into the sun,
Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin;
And the heart gives up its dead.

poem by Dylan Thomas
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West Wind, The

Beneath the forest's skirts I rest,
Whose branching pines rise dark and high,
And hear the breezes of the West
Among the threaded foliage sigh.

Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of wo?
Is not thy home among the flowers?
Do not the bright June roses blow,
To meet thy kiss at morning hours?

And lo! thy glorious realm outspread--
Yon stretching valleys, green and gay,
And yon free hilltops, o'er whose head
The loose white clouds are borne away.

And there the full broad river runs,
And many a fount wells fresh and sweet,
To cool thee when the mid-day suns
Have made thee faint beneath their heat.

Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love;
Spirit of the new wakened year!
The sun in his blue realm above
Smooths a bright path when thou art here.

In lawns the murmuring bee is heard,
The wooing ring-dove in the shade;
On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird
Takes wing, half happy, half afraid.

Ah! thou art like our wayward race;--
When not a shade of pain or ill
Dims the bright smile of Nature's face,
Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still.

poem by William Cullen Bryant
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The West Wind

Beneath the forest's skirts I rest,
Whose branching pines rise dark and high,
And hear the breezes of the West
Among the threaded foliage sigh.

Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of wo?
Is not thy home among the flowers?
Do not the bright June roses blow,
To meet thy kiss at morning hours?

And lo! thy glorious realm outspread
Yon stretching valleys, green and gay,
And yon free hilltops, o'er whose head
The loose white clouds are borne away.

And there the full broad river runs,
And many a fount wells fresh and sweet,
To cool thee when the mid-day suns
Have made thee faint beneath their heat.

Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love;
Spirit of the new wakened year!
The sun in his blue realm above
Smooths a bright path when thou art here.

In lawns the murmuring bee is heard,
The wooing ring-dove in the shade;
On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird
Takes wing, half happy, half afraid.

Ah! thou art like our wayward race;
When not a shade of pain or ill
Dims the bright smile of Nature's face,
Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still.

poem by William Cullen Bryant
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Yellow

The sun gazes from afar;
An hour to a picture-perfect horizon;
As the rays scatter to the humid spheres;
Stuttering and pacing, to accommodate the evaporating droplets.
The sunbeams know their ultimate destiny,
Like a fortuneteller in front of a decorated palm;
To land on her mustard yellow sundress, her mystical yellow peau;
As she plays among the yellow tulips;
A vivacious lass in a breathtaking landscape;
As the sunbeams bathe her eager visage.
Then the winds gather speed;
As the sundress blows in the wind;
She sans a care in the world, letting the hemlines rise to the heavens;
As her gauzy embroidery catches the gaze of the passing orioles;
As they rock and float in the gathering wind;
Delicate creatures competing with the fluttering butterflies;
For the nectar of the buttercups.
As the marigolds and sunflowers bloom in full,
Magnetized to the passing Ra;
Then her prince joins her, as they land a passionate lip lock;
As the rouge in the lips blend against the yellow bonanza;
In the middle of nowhere, in a wilderness sprinkled with yellow bamboo;
As their bodies slither against each other and as the knee raises effortlessly;
A heavenly kiss, that awakes the passion of two longing souls;
As they slowly stroll towards the yellow quilt on the terrain
To welcome the setting sun even the rising moon
To welcome a beginning, one bathed in yellow.

poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
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Nicholas Nye

Thistle and darnell and dock grew there,
And a bush, in the corner, of may,
On the orchard wall I used to sprawl
In the blazing heat of the day;

Half asleep and half awake,
While the birds went twittering by,
And nobody there my lone to share
But Nicholas Nye.

Nicholas Nye was lean and gray,
Lame of leg and old,
More than a score of donkey's years
He had been since he was foaled;
He munched the thistles, purple and spiked,
Would sometimes stoop and sigh,
And turn to his head, as if he said,
"Poor Nicholas Nye!"

Alone with his shadow he'd drowse in the meadow,
Lazily swinging his tail,
At break of day he used to bray,--
Not much too hearty and hale;
But a wonderful gumption was under his skin,
And a clean calm light in his eye,
And once in a while; he'd smile:--
Would Nicholas Nye.

Seem to be smiling at me, he would,
From his bush in the corner, of may,--
Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn,
Knobble-kneed, lonely and gray;
And over the grass would seem to pass
'Neath the deep dark blue of the sky,
Something much better than words between me
And Nicholas Nye.

But dusk would come in the apple boughs,
The green of the glow-worm shine,
The birds in nest would crouch to rest,
And home I'd trudge to mine;
And there, in the moonlight, dark with dew,
Asking not wherefore nor why,
Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post,
Old Nicholas Nye.

poem by Walter de la Mare
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The Question

I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way,
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
And gentle odours led my steps astray,
Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets;
Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets--
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth--
Its mother's face with Heaven's collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
Green cowbind and the moonlight-coloured may,
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew, yet drained not by the day;
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple pranked with white,
And starry river buds among the sedge,
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours
Within my hand,--and then, elate and gay,
I hastened to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it!--Oh! to whom?

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Halcyon And After

It was May or June, I met you:

Business, something or other.
Your study, when you showed me in
Was full of the sun, drenched with gold:
From work strewn across tables, chairs
You turned to me and smiled -
And I was dazzled.
You made me tea with bergamot
And we talked and talked, all the things
Our loved ones dare not hear.

At last, when I stood up to go
I saw your eyes diving back,
Sad and wise, into shafts of light
And I thought: 'She is the one.
I can tell her anything'.

But humid grey clouded the sun
That day your skirt revealed your legs:
I stared too long.
Your smile became a laugh
And you sheathed your tongue.
From then on, we were colleagues.

The night I saw you last
I walked you home half way:
We practised conversation,
Venturing nothing.
Suddenly, you slipped from my side:
I watched you walk to your future
Through summer dark and street lights,
May and June, another year.

poem by Richard George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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