Here, a village road,
darkly quiet, winds under
sunset’s opal sky,
wisps tinged turquoise green, rose,
tint the low horizon.
Here, a country lake,
old sailors dock weathered boats,
dusty cul-de-sac,
sloping west into moonlight,
circling east, breaking for dawn.
Here, I watch you trod
dementia’s well-worn paths;
footsteps forgotten,
when you trip, I help you stand,
unmire you from the ruts.
Here, a mildewed bench,
our initials carved in wood,
drop anchor, my love,
the water is so beautiful,
tie up, knot your endless loop.
Header photograph © Caroline Bardwell.
Joyce Ann Wheatley writes in Ithaca, New York, where she works as a librarian in a public library. Her work has been published in Prime Number Magazine (53 Word Story Contest), Paragraph Planet, Drabblez Magazine, Snapdragon Journal of Art and Healing, and is forthcoming in Ruminate Magazine. Shortlisted for A3 Review’s July 2018 Contest.
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