Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it ―Robert Frost
In autumn chill
And pass the way
To our lonely hill.
I hesitate,
Then think I’ll spy
Upon our lives
In days gone by.
But who am I
To retrace old steps
And climb up roots
To a broken fence?
Sommer’s hill
Is steep and still
And bends the birches
Up the hill
Peeling back
White brittle sheets
Where I wrote you poems
With a charred fire stick
We kept them
In an old dead tree
For you and I
And posterity
Many years
Have come between
And tears and time
Have wiped them clean
I’m often tempted
To look and see
But to find them gone
Would be disappointing
I try to think
As I go past
The lifeless tree
Would let them last
But I’d rather visit
In my thoughts
Than climb the hill
And end up lost.
beautiful poetry with amazing photograph
thanks @imraan
This deserves some attention. Upvoted and resteemed :)
thanks, @ipkiss
Like your poetry
This post has received a 20.21 % upvote from @booster thanks to: @johnjgeddes.
Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
Another excellent poem! Keep them coming!
Obviously I have no idea what you had in mind, (what was the author smoking concept :-) )
But your words had a lot of meaning to me.
Thank you for writing & posting!
I adore you're writing.
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Lovely reflection on the past. Sometimes it is better we have the memories than climb the hill to find disappointment...
thanks