… my pen scratches
and he’s moving through
departure lounges like a ghost …
Leaving lost opportunities,
withering as pot plants on the sill,
he’s leaving for a land of forgetfulness –
exchanging orchards for olive groves.
All he undid by his not doing –
unsaid by his not saying,
comes like a rush, a density of sighs.
Do you hear the beat of this flight,
his aching temples tattooing the air?
I’ll remember him sometimes
when I gaze from my window
at a solitary bird in his melancholy song,
picture him on his strange migration …
and what do you leave this time, my dear –
my sad, quiet watcher of the skies?
What trace will your love find when she wakes,
but a few curled feathers on her silent lawn?
© Caroline Fox Betts 2010