View from a train window

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Once upon a time
a meadow lay where
one Sunday afternoon
she loved me forever,
the grasses have gone
as has she, fallen
into the unreliable mists of memory
In its place, houses
populated by lovers
whispering forevers

the critic

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(Earlier today)

 

As I write, a bee, seeking sanctuary from the cold March weather,
lands an inch from my pencil.
Keep writing.
He looks bit bedraggled; perhaps that’s what he thinks of me
though I’m probably too big to be seen.
I presume ‘He’ because it¬†doesn’t look like a queen.
Up and down, he does a few press-ups, warming himself.
And off he goes,
looking no doubt for early dandelions or forsythia,
a rescue from this too early awakening.
Clearly not impressed by my writings.