Thursday, March 09, 2017


The cool grey light, dove-soft and feathered,
Strokes the surface of the loch, subduing the
Waves that earlier chattered to the passing wind,
And now they whisper, soft and low, of the
Day passing and the night as yet untold.

And in those moments the memories of
Pain, and loss, sweep back over the soul
Of the watcher, the one who awaits the stars
And the unstoppable march of the
Approaching night, the dawn-waiter.

And in time, the memories fade to sepia
And play silently, an old and tattered film.

(c) 2ndwitch, 09/03/17

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