On Autumnal, clear skied,
full mooned nights.
She can still be viewed
atop Poacher’s Slope.
Slightly to the right-hand side
of the derelict windmill.
An echo of something lost
yearning for remembrance.
to the rhythm of thrashing arms
separating the wheat from the chaff
and the past from the present.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096