My bike rose roaring up the hill,
The wind! Oh, so nice and chill.
In times lonely, I come here often,
that helps my cramped mind to soften.
Far from the dean and bustle,
of a city’s increasing tussle.
Every now and then is a turn,
renders a new memory to earn.
The cold kiss of the fog,
gives your memory a jog.
The leaves twirl and fall,
from trees old and tall.
Prasenjit © 2009
small and a nice one. crisp.
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