stood beyond
the blanket
of blistered buttercups
grasses green
the sweeping wheat
of song

passions
I could ne’ver confess
swirl to aching verse
leaned into the hunger
of the wind

seasons gone
five hundred years
names are written over
as sides have taken
comfort
in the loss

of choices
made – the past is gone
tho none can say for sure –
what of love
was written to endure

immortal still
 the essence left
of places where we lay
– as whispers to awaken

in fields
of yesterday

. . .