Out of their secret places <br />in autumn, from under <br /> <br />dark logs and smooth gravestones <br />they come, black snakes, <br />stripped, floating free <br /> <br />in the golden September sunlight <br />which drifts as they try <br />to hold onto it. <br /> <br />They lay their bodies <br />across our warm paths, <br />branches of misspent hours, <br /> <br />limbs from the low gullies. <br />Past school children and old men <br />they wind, making no sound <br /> <br />sliding the earth in silence, <br />riding a world that seems dull <br />and hazy, half-spent, <br /> <br />beautiful errors <br />that rise up as we gasp.<br /><br />Geraldine Connolly<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/regrets-80/
