Something In the night

… my pen scratches
and he’s moving through
departure lounges like a ghost …
between dimensions.

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


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