He sits quietly in a chair in this two-bed room
fine silver strands combed above a stubbly face,
a distant look of satisfaction
now that the heavy iron doors
have slammed shut,
when in the mind
he speaks to God
of reality
and drinks deep
of a flowing nectar
weary
from a long journey
a road travelled
one-hundred times,
now
a tremulous feather
drifting on the wind
how we dreamt then,
long ago
encircled by blankets of love,
cycling with wind and sun
against our skin
snow on the mountainside melts
while wet tears flow
to the mirrored lake below
reflecting a golden moon
a ghost of himself.
calm still
frogs interrupt,
crows black as bins of coal
disappear
I come to seek you
longing for Egyptian Gardens
after these halcyon years
comb my hair
while I comb yours
shave my face
while I touch yours
Copyright 2007 author131
Walter Durk
