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The High Flying

Poetry By: Ken Simm


Submitted:Dec 29, 2008    Reads: 111    Comments: 2    Likes: 1   


when snow dust blows off the dark mountains light

when the geese are high on a frost filled night.

When a second small word brings you stinging back

prick eye, sharp and stumbling behind something, lack.

The press of the wonder is no more the need.

The has been and will be in first frittering feed

of a snow tree in winter, a full frantic hope

a sigh, a distance, a whisper you coped.

If space equals distance with some let me lay

in the comfort that allowed memories lay

keep the will and the hope, let distance be flight

of the geese that are high on this frost mountains night.


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