Why can’t we pitch in this place?
Chaff hands on ropes, our boots flayed by snow,
fine silt of breath clouds our frayed overcoats.
Black eyed from the wind, everything soaked.
You stand at the edge of a wood,
staring at bark, listening to shrubs.
Gently I tap on the side of your nose.
You're asleep on your feet and I’m comatose.
22 Dec 06
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Not sure - I like the wintry feel and the isolation of the two figures - Hansel and Gretel; Babes In The Wood? Captain Scott?
Otherwise the connection it makes with me is quite tenuous, other than the desire to walk into the snow and be lost forever of course.
Come on its not that bad surely?
Larry well known writer of stunningly inept poems Lark
larrylark, nice piece.