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.
© Copyright 2017 Ken Simm. All rights reserved.
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