08-08-2013, 10:00 AM
A purple ocean over rolling hills;
that broad expanse of England's heathered spine
it held us captive, two Saturday ramblers;
hikers crooks, and boots ready to stride
The granite altar spread throughout the moor
it was our solace, our place of worship.
We'd gasp as tired waterfowl alit
on mirrored planes of silver painted ponds.
A thousand threads of white; the ripples rush
across the canvass in Picasso blue.
The Kestrels hovered hard against the wind and
waited on the wing before they dove.
the done poem, i was going to do a sad end stanza but it kept coming out as too cheesy.
i will change the title to ;
Your Special Place
now all i need is some help as to whether it stays here or moves over to one of the feedback forums.
that broad expanse of England's heathered spine
it held us captive, two Saturday ramblers;
hikers crooks, and boots ready to stride
The granite altar spread throughout the moor
it was our solace, our place of worship.
We'd gasp as tired waterfowl alit
on mirrored planes of silver painted ponds.
A thousand threads of white; the ripples rush
across the canvass in Picasso blue.
The Kestrels hovered hard against the wind and
waited on the wing before they dove.
the done poem, i was going to do a sad end stanza but it kept coming out as too cheesy.
i will change the title to ;
Your Special Place
now all i need is some help as to whether it stays here or moves over to one of the feedback forums.