Silent Sunday mornings,
And things of the past,
Drift past.
Like fond memories and “Oh Dear’s”,
That I hold dear,
Are here, conversing over tea.
Dearly.
Swimming in the warm breeze,
Or wading in the sun,
Or a pat on the back,
Bring back,
So fondly
These memories.
In a white linen dress,
With seams that caress
Skin beautifully bronzed and brazen,
Lain in
The grass.
Seduced sleepily
By the strings of Ravi Shankar's
Sitar, far
Far away my mind is
Put somewhere, afar.
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