Where the croft turned to dune
we hid to make our love,
The Peewit called staccato tunes
unbound in choirs above...
The Grasses beckoned desperate Waves
too drowned by Seas unbroke,
that crashed the Shore and lashed the Caves
as words that can't be spoke...
I dream my fingers in your hair
my breath upon your face,
to wish my soul with yours was there
in that enchanted place.
Good morning Graham,
Thank you for your reading and the comment.
I'm not sure which form gives me more satisfaction, the rhyme or prose.
The pitfall with rhyme for me seems to be the temptation to use the easy path, take a word that is so obvious that the reader has completed the line before they have read it. That type of error leads to disappointment.
As with most writing, life experience counts for quite a bit...that and a good imagination coupled with an amount of empathy and compassion might get us some of the way.
Thanks again,
David RL Moore
PS. It seems unusual these days to not find many similar poems on this subject/of this tone written by men, why is that I wonder?
A mournful yet quite enchanting poem. You do rhyme very well David. I can never get the hang of it myself. Well done.
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David RL Moore
Mon 19th May 2025 13:30
Thank you for the likes on this folks.
David RL Moore