The Gift
The Gift
In colours rare a stunning shawl
To drape her arms when breezes call
Her lover’s gift of silken strands
Was spun in oriental lands
And secrets kept her heart in thrall
‘Til waxing cold his love grew small
And slipped away like shifting sands
Forgetting vow of wedding bands
She sits alone by fireside flame
The shawl, her link to way back when
They both were young and passion high.
In memories her pleasures lie.
With closing eyes she plays the game
Her love is here, and now is then.
Copyright © Margaret Foster | Year Posted 2010
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