It was so long ago
Summertime in England
We were now going out
Walking up the steep hill
Through a field of golden butttercups
Just why did I like you
We lay there untroubled
Warmth of sun on faces
Looking over the town
With me hoping I could kiss your lips
"Rob, do you like butter?"
Picking just one flower
Holding it by my chin
It was then I kissed her
And touched her with my fingertips
Shame such love does not last
As old time ticks away
This old man longs for her
Walking up that steep hill
Through a field of golden buttercups
Image found at www.pixabay.com
Wonderful memory. Real butter doesn't last all that long either . . .
ReplyDeleteIt sounds like a magical moment in a field of buttercups. Memories are the heart of a poet.
ReplyDeleteSuch a magical moment captured so flawlessly.. sigh..
ReplyDeleteOf course you like butter - an evocative poem once again your heart shines through.. now did you make daisy chains too
ReplyDeleteA treasure of memory,
ReplyDeleteElizabeth
Such a sweet memory recorded by your lovely poetry.
ReplyDeleteThe beauty of young love is a treasure, even if lasting for a while.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful description of young love ... a wonderful memory.
ReplyDeleteA sweet moment, sweetly described!
ReplyDeleteSo beautiful a memory. I remember a hillside abloom in yellow daisies every spring.
ReplyDeleteGlorious memories sustained. It could have been sealed earlier. A process in the growing up years could not be erased!
ReplyDeleteHank
A sunny memory of a perfect day, Robin. Your poem a fitting tribute to that day.
ReplyDelete