Washed Out

I found this poem from 2008 hiding in my files. It was written before I considered myself a writer, and before I ever dreamed of being a poet. I thought it would be fun to share it with all of you.

In fields of grey
and washed out rose,
Beneath a sky
in eternal repose,

Opposite a Rainbow,
its edges torn,
Beside a bramble
full of thorns,

While set against
a horizon, worn,
Laid across
a brook so forlorn,

Is a precious place
imprinted deep,
on wooden planking
where he sat to weep.

He watched
a little boat drift,
so far away
his last loving gift.

Carved from a branch
leaf for a sail,
it bobbed down stream
green foam on its tail.

The lady fair
he had dressed in moss,
her fragile wings
still held high aloft.

With her went his worlds
colour and life.
His soul skipped a beat
at this, his first strife.

©2022 Mary Grace van der Kroef


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