Kissie sounds, small and tiny,
The telephone line goes silent,
But not the wind whipping might
Of the arctic blast; what she meant,
Love, and words lost like keys
In the snow by accident.
Ghoulish skies, polished steel,
Ice an inch thick on the pavement,
Forty-five mile an hour
Winds at - 5; Winter here is violent,
And the short silent space
Between goodby, and my descent
Into madness
Terrifies me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A very good poem,...you may also read mine, Bad luck
I'm glad you liked it; thk you Alison.