It’s a sharp, cold day in October,
up here in these far-rolling hills,
decked out in fiery colours,
like the coat that Joseph received,
but I’m warmed by longing reflections,
of hot summer days and a girl
who ran to the silvery river,
that flows through the village below,
where for hours we talked,
and for hours we sat,
and for hours our eyes we entwined.
Ah, to remember her beauty,
so gentle, so delicate, so aged,
her mystery now is transmuted,
a rainbow turned into gold,
so all that’s left is the mourning
for the future we lost long ago,
as with wine and tears we remember,
though old, though sad, and though few,
our quest for the love and the longing,
that gives life to the passage of time.
One Voyce of the World 
Omg that’s me but with a boy. Oh those memories that were + never were but in my mind. Love it Christopher.I go there more as I get older….in a good way not as regret. You have such a wonderful gift of words.
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I truly enjoy your work
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Thank you very much Sylvia. Yes, it could be written from a woman’s point of view the same-something well experience. Thank you for the support.
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Beautifull,like the writter soul.
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Beautifull,like the writter soul.I like your poems.
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Thank you very much Alicia for you kind words. I am glad you like my work-thank you form commenting on it
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Beautifull,like the writer soul.I like your poems.
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