It Comes with the Turf

Faraway is here,

But in the way.

How intangible what startles
In a dream.

Everywhere is here too.
And wouldn’t you know it.

The last splendid pink and red
In the sky.

A curve in space.
A letting go of time.

Every last thread
In this shirt,

Every last month
In this strain,

And you can’t take it back
Though it be the very last song.

Strange is probably.
It comes with the turf.

8 thoughts on “It Comes with the Turf

  1. Such a beautifully pensive poem, Bob. It made me feel like a dot in the landscape pinging far out then back again. I really felt this line: “Every last month in this strain.”
    Wishing you well 🙂


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