A Little Hill
by Frank Watson
A puff rose up from land

below the downward sloping pines;

the city’s roofs were tanned

while eyes searched low for signs.


My office was the center hill,

then working as a private retreat;

I wondered if I loved her still

or if the feelings were but fleet.


All writings and translations are Copyright © by Frank Watson, also writing as "Blue Flute" (2011-2014).
Year: 
2012