Behold, the scene that fed my past,
though my childhood laughs did not echo there
and the silhouette of what is left
is flattened now, with those bare
and winter-ready trees
having autumn-lost their drinking cups
stand blindly, looking up,
dry towards a dimming sun
which paints moist a faint landscape glow
though I see no field or garden now
and there is no gardener to wipe his brow
in summer heat,
in this cardboard cut-out version
of my childhood seat.
I see but a scene set forever in fading light
where no detailed features may return,
no matter how hard I wish or fight.

Author: George McDermid

I scratch out poems, and the odd little tale. Mostly for my own amusement.

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