Sarah, or was her name, Christine?
I know I loved her in the park
Although I never knew her name.
We passed and smiled, as on a lark,
Our destinations far apart,
as we each went our focused way
Down different paths that never led
to where we two might join and stay.
I know this poem is wistful waste…
but I say Christine or Sarah may
Forever trudge that pregnant path
where past and future met one day,
And sad, lost dreams and almost hopes
lie wasting, wounded and at bay.
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.