the poetry of Charles Fry

15 October 2009

It must have been a dozen years since we last spoke.
But this time as she passed there was that glance.
That look of sorrow in her eyes.
That mournful way in which she haunts my heart.

I'm not a criminal.
Does she still think I really did it?
Though there are days when I wish that I had.

We were so naive back then.
Believed to the end of the world and back.
Thought we understood it all.
That one day we'd be folk heroes.

I stop and turn around.
Waiting to see if she'll look back.
Ready to call her unto me.
Ready to forget all that has been.

Copyright © 2009 Charles Fry