She drift's around without luggage, living off a blank page
Without family, finding a time to bloom,
Raising her face to the sun,
As it embraces her desire to have fun,
In it's warm rays like her cherry topped days,
Her wild flower grows with a sweet scent,
Of her forgiving ways.
Beauty sit's easily on her strong shoulders,
Relishing the here and now, without having any lair,
As she sweeps poverty away,
Like the reason to capture every season,
Squeezing evey ounce of goodness out of it's bounty,
Her jeans faded and jaded,
She searches for happiness within and invades.
Love is her reality of living,
In her cocoon of giving,
Kisses, hugs and merry times,
Night falls as nursery ryhmes calls,
As the wind howls it's enchanting language,
With the groans of the branches of the old oak tree.
This child/woman has found the secret code to be free,
Love, a vintage lace swirling around her childlike face,
Immersed in nature's verse,
Of plenty of soul, as she knows eventually she will grow old,
In her world that revolves around loving.
Like the sun in it's prime with the promise of golden sublime,
Like the moon with its sultry gift,
Like the sea water of magnitude,
With it's character of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde,
In the constant of the incoming tide,
Like the skies blue, grey, orange streaked in the colours of romance,
Nature's abundance caught with her attitude,
To always take a chance.
As she thrives as an artist of deep emotions,
Set free in flight as she finds the eternal light,
Of the freedom of another day paved in smiles,
Along the many country miles,
With her choice to rejoice,
In every star filled night,
With the twinkle in her eyes ever so bright.
In her captivating trance,
Of her everyday butterfly dance.
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(22 March 1941 -)