Time over Tuesday, August almost gone,
So little left of summer to dream on.
I write a poem on the windowglass.
Quatrains waver like shadows in the grass.
One feels as if all life is lost in form.
Only sun's metaphor can keep us warm.
A lone, nostalgic whistle in the hills,
Tells me our train has come, the moment chills.
You turn my collar up against the sound.
Gray smoke configures good-bye on the ground.
The picture is too beautiful to lose
Your eyes tell me that Tuesday is old news.
Copyright,2007, Sandra Fowler
10 / 10 lovley poem sandre i wish i could have some of your talent.... love abi.
A wonderfully lyrical poem that stirs the senses each in turn. Your observations on the passing of time are so beautifully captured.Justine.
Great poem Sandra.... full of senses in life's panorama! Thanks for bringing joy. Regards.
Fantastic write, as ever Misss Fowler.. It pains me that summer has almost gone. But i smile again knowing that firey autumn is almost here. Hugs Nix xxx
A lone, nostalgic whistle in the hills, Tells me our train has come, the moment chills...great expression dear Sandra. It's a brilliant poem.
tender, heartbreaking.... almost cinematic
I'm putting this one right next to one of Emily Dickinson's epigrams. 'What Miracles the News is! Not Bismark but ourselves.'
It elicits a gentle chuckle from me that I do not understand but enjoy. Bill Grace
I'm a little late finding this one Sandra, it's all been said. I'll add you are an exceptional poet and I enjoy your work. Thanks for the wonderful read Sandra. --Melvina--
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
This has a mood that strikes me as both intimate and timeless. Very wistful and meticulously crafted.