He asked her
He asked her to meet him in the old shed,
Where in their childhood they had often played.
The structure stood by the lake
Silvery gray on a cloudy evening
A fog hanging like a curtain of lace
Or a shroud in a cold white tomb.
He was seventeen
Bright, young, transitory
In his eyes was light,
though dimmed,
Still burning
His name is Mark Andrew McGill.
YOU ARE READING
Poems Don't Have to Rhyme
PoesíaPoetry collection. Some of it is pretty good, most of it is pretty bad.
