The half-remembered.

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    The half-remembered.

    A cold wind blew
    when the light went.
    An accumulation of warmth
    came from copse and hill,
    cheap spawned and self created,
    as the night renewed.
    He walked home, careless of his stumbling steps,
    and softly threw his bags to the
    floor, demons on the hearth-rug,
    coiling snakes and insects everywhere.

    It was all behind him now.
    A sullen fist of half-remembered regret,
    the weather-laden wood carrying his dreams
    in each silver flaked leaf.

    A half-remembered face, an
    age destroyed beauty.
    It was time to go now!
    Time to go!

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    Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    stan’s Poems (6)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    The camera 4
    mutual embrace 2
    mutual embrace 0
    Moroccan Beauty 0
    A cold wind 0
    The half-remember
    ed.
    0