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My fingers ache for the taste of grass
I dream of dawn and garden flowers
There is nothing to do but remember.
Through the slice of window
the sun shotguns itself through the clouds.
The rest of the world is scaling climbing frames,
Feeding swans, slipping love notes into pockets.
I crave the taste of floorboard on foot,
My fingers form animal shadows on the wall
There is nothing to do but remember.
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A relative came yesterday- I wish you well
They said. What else to say but thank you.
Vincent James Turner
| Submitted Date |
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Tuesday, November 24, 2009 |
| Submitted Date |
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Saturday, January 16, 2010 |
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Poets
