I Write Poetry

Portage

Save the bell for whom tolls me,
I know not yet the fog I see,
The clay in which I play doth be,
A vestige of what once was me.

Send the rain to breach my weir,
In memory does this image sear,
A scant flame yet does still burn,
Another autumn for which I yearn.

An azimuth which once was skewed,
My course now points and does allude,
For me at least I will be free.
At last with you I soon will be.

Patrick ©