Towards a violet-hued horizon
in the ambiance of amber light
provident of sunset skies
and a rising harvest moon.
Crisp autumn air
feels like autumn sounds.
Underfoot, gravel crunching,
walking a road unpaved.
Each side is tree-lined,
a center divided by grass.
In past, a path well-traveled
once again, for the last time.
Approaching a sycamore tree
where their carved initials
are forever etched in memory.
For the briefest moment
he sees her standing there,
beneath autumn leaves
the color of her auburn hair.
About the Creator
Brian Clifton
I am a father, a software engineer, a technical writer, a fantasy fiction writer and a poet. I am an activist for every-human's rights, and when I am not writing code, I'm writing poetry to order my thoughts as a form of self-work.
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