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Philip Warwick Aug 2017
April in Paris
Nightfall, rain falling,
Soft along a Boulevard.
Catching a poets glasses,
As he wanders,
Hands in pockets,
Lost in thought.
Pausing to wipe the vision,
That raindrops leave on a lens.
Images of Monet gardens,
Magnificent in moonlight.
The distant sound of bells,
Catch his ear,
And a horse and carriage,
On cobbled stones.
The poet ponders,
On his muse,
And words written.
Couplets and stanzas,
Words that stir the soul,
And cause,
The heart to beat faster.
That puts pen to paper.
April in Paris,
Lost in thought.
Caught up in a dream,
Drifting through a reverie,
Searching for a theme.
Inspired by Woody Allen’s film, Midnight In Paris.
Philip Warwick Aug 2017
Under summer sun,
Closed eyes,
A soft hue of  Crimson.
Where pictures blurred,
Images, obscure,
Drift unordered,
Through a uncluttered mind.
Thoughts of a serene nature,
Content just to be.
While the nostalgic sound,
Of an aeroplane's engine,
Echo in a cloudless sky.
Time idly slips on by.
And the call of one’s youth,
chime the ages.
Each season,
That  falls under the sun.
Like old memories,
That  hang  on the breeze.
Amid the beauty,
Of nature's sweet rhyme.
caught  up  in a few precious moments,
Slowly fading, falling backwards,
Through time.

— The End —