Ian Bowen

My Last Dream* - Poem by Ian Bowen

If you look,
you still can
find empty
Summer meadows….

where paths
and roads
are made
of grass….

there, early
Rabbits run
wild through
pink eyed

and the Sun
sprinkles mornings
with dew-
dripping showers.

But later as
the late sun runs….

you sleep,
candy floss
drift down
to colour
the black
picnic cloth.

And now...

you are gone.

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, February 16, 2010

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