Wednesday, 22 October 2008

Passing Through

Certain strange things
That make me want to cry.
The fresh smell of newly cut grass
My grandmother’s skin
Top of a baby’s head

I know its time to go when
The ground is yawning at my feet.
But I smile,
Not tell anyone.

I think of you
When the shadows become longer
And the fire dies down
When the night is awakened
And no one is around.

In the morning,
Not easy when,
I’m alone with myself and,
My hand goes out to touch you,
But you’re not there.
It’s just the summer breeze
Passing through.

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