Tuesday, January 17, 2012

The Old Days

He had started walking early enough
not to get lost before dark fell
over and between the great trees
dripping with what was left of the day’s fog,
the sound of waves lapping the shore
to one side, branches crackling, birds crying,
tremors underfoot that were not his,
the sound of breathing not wholly his own,
and here he was, arriving home,
looking through the open window
wondering who she was sat by the fire,
then tried the door, locked, but opening
inward, stepping through, taking the hand
soft as he remembered her lips with his.

(17 January 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander

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