A Place for Me

There is a place for me,

Pine needles, oaken trees,

A pond fed by a creek,

Perhaps a neighbor’s sheep?

What noise do sheep say? Oh,

Bleat. “Neigh” came to mind, though.

Anyway, I’ve a place to go,

More than four decades gone.

I’ll sit and watch the pond.

Cicadas sing their song,

After my friends, these dogs,

Have lovingly moved on.

I will not forget them,

They are my truest friends,

They’ve chosen guardians,

To come late, come again.

So, by the pond I’ll sit,

Wistful, reminiscent,

Watching gold fish flitting,

This place, Fate, is fitting.


© CGT, 2017.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

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