My Sarah Marie

A sycamore tree, stands broad and alone upon a hill
spring ochre leaves fall upon lush verdure.
In the vast, heavenly Swan Valley; here is center
for deep below lies Sarah Marie - the only love for me.

The setting sun colours the vapourous skies' to vermilion
a soft familiar hush; bristles the Maple wings
as I swoon knee deep within the moist foliage
I remember a much younger; Sarah Marie and me.

I see it now, albeit hazy with an angelic glow
Child-like dancing, hand in hand beneath this very tree.
Her snow white dress patched with rich winegrowing soil
voice now travelling with the winds; whimpering 'Sarah Marie'.

How I anguish in mourn over the natured place of her death
As 'twas here she fell, fell from this sycamore tree,
aiming to reach the skies as angels often do
only to be gone, gone my beautiful Sarah Marie.

A whirlwind of leaves encircles around me
the gracefully floating vortex; hypnotic in display
each leaf alike a memory drifting, rekindling memoirs of youth
directly above, above the mound of my Sarah Marie.

My chest grows heavy, monotonously pulsing a black tar
I reach to grasp an apparition of her rich auburn hair.
Trembling not from the gusts but from each limb yearning
recalling the touch, the softest touch, of my Sarah Marie.

Here I shall slumber, counting floating embers
falling into the haze of dream-works to a time;
when spring's of yore pollinated the daisies with hope
and there to be in lip and trance, with beautiful, beautiful Sarah Marie.