THE BOOK
I’m still holding the hardback,
still reading the book you gave
almost thirty years ago,
pages are hovering wings
- a wind-snagged kestrel
eyeing the verge below.
A birthday present
showing your passion
in pictures and words;
could we ever find
the fluent secret
of soaring like birds ?
New love did come,
over a simple meal
nibbled and bitten,
greedy eyes meeting,
our hearts pounding -
the story is written.
2 comments:
Very thoughtful poem. Hardback has many meanings. Would you care to share more about the meaning of your first line?
Thanks for commenting, Jean.
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