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Flickering

Golden whiskey dusted
the valleys, between
shadowed peaks, still
in the sterling morning.

Nostalgia escaped
her lips, dancing
in the dewed air.

Woolen fingers wove
over cobblestoned paths;
a mossy history
awaiting discovery.

A thistle rested behind her ear,
the misty violet hue
cascading over the hinges
anchored in rusted stone.

Pines and willows reflected
in green waters, blue eyes,
harmony floating along the edges.

Still, steady-
the royal sun warmed
the distant hearts,
reaching the Sunday horizon.



xx,
Hill