Poetry

Greenwich

I stand under the oak tree

watching the sunlight

pool in the grasses

and listening for the echo

of your laughter

in the call of sparrows.

You are somewhere

between the willows and the pond,

a shadow drifting across the water,

the bowing reeds bending

to your gentle stride.

I trail my fingers

along the rough bark

of the oak, feeling

for the places you once touched,

where the moss grows greenest,

where the wood thrums softly

underneath.

I let the wind carry your name

through the fields and into the hills,

where the stones will hold it close

and the wildflowers will scatter it

among the clouds,

until it falls back

to rest in the quiet shade