The Hour is Late

/ annjohnsonmurphree

I would not allow you to

love me fair-haired boy, yet

your flaxen locks blowing in

the wind brought me joy.

Your knowledge was that of

the earth, your touch softer

than new fallen leaves; like a

spider, a web around my heart

you tried to weave.  Promised to

another I could not break God’s

law, you were a rare find, all

goodness and kind; my heart I

placed in a tower made to erase

you from my mind.  The years

have gone quickly I often wonder

where you could be; oh fair-haired

boy where are you now that I am free.

 

©2014.thehourislate.annjohnsonmurphree

 

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14 thoughts on “The Hour is Late”

  1. I heard another woman wondering this very thing today. How many opportunities pass us by. How we look for kindness. That was the word she used also. He was kind.

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    • Toritto, yes…it did come from the heart, from a place I rarely visit. Of course as all writer must do we write from experience and bit of truth a bit of fiction. It is my birthday today, a date remembered in many ways and I am glad that I posted the close to heart poem. I did and he passed away (no longer a fair-haired boy) two years before I claimed my freedom. Thank you for such a wonderful comment, these I cherish. Ann

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