He stares at the painting again
which has hung in his lounge
for decades, often invisible:
a lane stretches into the enticing distance,
trees on one side bushes on the other,
a tranquil day in the summer it seems
and sometimes he saunters there in his dreams
in the sunshine with his love
who often admired the scene.
But she has gone yet it remains,
the old clock ticking monotonously
on a wet Wednesday afternoon
as the sombre man drifts back in time
remembering moments...sweet and sublime.
which has hung in his lounge
for decades, often invisible:
a lane stretches into the enticing distance,
trees on one side bushes on the other,
a tranquil day in the summer it seems
and sometimes he saunters there in his dreams
in the sunshine with his love
who often admired the scene.
But she has gone yet it remains,
the old clock ticking monotonously
on a wet Wednesday afternoon
as the sombre man drifts back in time
remembering moments...sweet and sublime.
