Walking through the churchyard snow
I think
On those below.
Footprints in the February snow
Soon will go.
But ink
On a page
May still engage
Though the poet is gone.
His words live on.
Else they go,
As does the February snow.
Walking through the churchyard snow
I think
On those below.
Footprints in the February snow
Soon will go.
But ink
On a page
May still engage
Though the poet is gone.
His words live on.
Else they go,
As does the February snow.