It was always too late for us, my love,

Cold winds blew our dreams away

Before we could even say, 'I love you so'.


Along these empty streets wind once scattered

Snow in the icy air, screaming at me: she's not there;

I took you into my dreams before I even knew


You existed and all the twists of life abound

Up with you. But who can see the end of life?

In this storm of wind and cold and being young?


Do not tell me that the stars still shine,

They are just God's bad joke at our expense,

Life is lent, not given, borrowed on a whim


From accident, hoping serendipity is master

Craftsman of our whole intent. But luck and chance

Conspired to come too late and fate, as usual, took over.


That cold body in a lake means a life and love  lost

At such a cost that we are left bereft, strangers on a far shore,

Far from where the lore of life and death is taken at the flood;

It is now too late to recreate, the blue-remembered hills of home.



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Die Zauberflote ►


Devon Brock

Wed 19th Jun 2019 23:46

Now here's the beauty of solid poetry. You may be speaking to someone or someplace, that I don't know. But what you have accomplished here is to give me a lost love song of the place of my childhood - Appalachia. You have let me tell my story (to myself) in this poem. You have bridged the gap between poet and reader. You have taken me back to a yearning for the great hills of my birth, you SOB, and I love it. And BTW, you solidly landed the form.

Devon Brock

Wed 19th Jun 2019 23:32

Oh man. "The blue-remembered hills of home". That's a sucker punch. Nice work.

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