Sunday in the slow lane
late autumn sunshine
river flowing gently
out to sea
soft voices
the gentle telling
of time
Poetry is a meeting
of minds
or should I say
poetry has a mind
of its own
and the poetry
is in the words
just as love
is in the making
and doing
Words activated
by the mind
take on a life
of their own
the deep blue
of the sky
may not last forever
but it will recur
just as roses are
occasional visitors
to our tables

and there is hope
in the rise and fall
of petals


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