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Jan 2014
My story ends of sparkle,
Hands, winding me in fable
The dark lines of her lashing eyes
Are burning rings, shear ice,
Covering the lost ponds of spring,
To see her in the ripening fields
Is to know the myriad colours
Of flowers, wild with loneliness,
She is always numbering the days,
Always on parade, hair, with out end,
Tresses trailing the wind.
Seán Mac Falls
Written by
Seán Mac Falls  Éire
(Éire)   
  775
     dj, ---, rained-on parade, ---, Long To Sail and 9 others
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