Rory Hudson

Edge Of The Park, Night

A cold wind hurries down the broad avenues,
Scattering spring’s blossoms, dewdrops on the dark roads.
In the park, an old man curls against a bottle beneath a tree.
I turn away and follow the footsteps of time.
If I ever return, he will not be there.

Poem Submitted: Saturday, May 2, 2009

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