I hear your voice in the darkness

and it reminds me of cold autumn rain

as I hitchhiked north

and saw the white threat of

angry spellbound snow

on the distant

Canadian mountain range

and I find myself crying

for the memories

your words placed in me,

as I once became the new kid in

the small Oxfordshire town,

as I was the new kid

on the highway finding temptation,

and the glory of a lift with a beautiful woman.

 

It is the gentle sweep, brush like,