The Golden Hour

All your fire warm and bright

On your face inside a frame

You heard my voice - you turned to look

I never saw you again the same  

I call your name

But there’s nothing left to say

No there’s nothing left to say

 

In the golden hour before you slipped away

I realized I was only one at the long end of your array

 

Wind at your back carries the train horn

And the crows break from a tree

At the long pause and a deep breath

As your scarf breaks free

What else can I be

When there’s nothing left to say?

No there’s nothing left to say

 

In the golden hour before you slipped away

I realized I was only one at the long end of your array

©2016 Paul-John Moeller