The perfection of a meadow.

August 24, 2010
By , East Grinstead, West Sussex, United Kingdom
The whispering wind caresses his cheek,
as sirius soars his eyes are as deep,
the sweetest of grasses burn gold as his locks,
his promise to me; butterflies from a box,
feather on my pillow, a song from the trees,
remember me softly, the dance of the bees.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback