The setting sun, with its brilliant colors
Casts dieing shadows
On the path, once taken
With hand in hand, hopes high
The footsteps left are now the reminder
Of the hazel eyes, the voice so kinder
But nature had come into her own again
Little by little, in her stealthy, insidious way
Encroached upon the path stubborn vein
The woods, always a menace even in the past
Had triumphed in the end, won at last
The beeches with white naked limbs
Leant close to one another
Their branches intermingled in a strange embrace
Making a vault above my head
Like an archway of a church
Resulting in the darkness like a lead
The path is a ribbon now
A thread of its former self
With gravel surface gone
Chocked with grass and moss
On and on, now east now west
Wound the poor thread
Sometimes, I thought it lost
But it appeared again
Beneath a fallen tree
I had not thought the way so long
Surely the miles had multiplied
With me trudging so alone…..
No comments:
Post a Comment