Late Sun
Late sun, tapping out
its slow beat on my back,
synchronised with my blood,
to be memorised on the skin,
stored up against coming cold.
It has a deeper note,
a different smell,
a denser sweetness,
as if to make up
its clear shortfall,
to compensate for
its soon to be
earlier darkening.
As if by sitting here
under its golden blessing
I could hold it fast
in this perfected moment.
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Hello Imogen! Remember me? What a lovely poem!
I do! Just saw your comment. Saw your poems on Nutshells and Nuggets, and sent a pc to the Aberdeen address I have. Too old?
Reblogged this on cjheries.