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  • Gary Hunter

The Romantic still Lives - July 17, 2020

two hundred years ago I would

have been a word troubadour wandering

between villages full of laughs and alcohol

writing by moon beam reading by firelight

welcomed as a lover of spoken magic

deliverer of tears and hope to sore hearts

teacher of foolishness celebrator of the trivial

dabbler in the divine murmurer of the sublime

when I left I’d be missed and mulled

like that one pink cloud at dusk

that darkens at the horizon

like the last line of a poem

that promises to return

in three nights in a dream


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