Changeless
F. Hart
Three sycamores down the road,
High, blotched, shaken in the cold;
A field; cut in its grass,
A pool, like small, wild gold.
And this was all I saw,
As you came by with me
A day last week. Now you are dead.
What is it that I see?
Three sycamores down the road,
High, blotched, shaken in the cold;
A field; cut in its grass,
A pool, like small, wild gold.