A swing
hangs from a firm branch
over soft calm water
where the only disturbance
is the occasional small fish
that jumps up and out
making a small splattering noise
as it falls back in;
the swing is made of old thin twine
and a worn piece of wood
broken not sawed
and upon it sits
my sweet red haired girl,
she wears the same purple gown
she wore on that first night
I was with her –
how I remember its warm velvet touch
beneath my fingers tips
as I traced her contours
before she reached out
and took my hand in hers
leading me to a secret place
I had never dreamed of –
but now fog covers everything
and though I reach out to you
across the water
there’s an expanse there
that I’ll never get beyond
because you’ve become lost
in thought
distant
and faceless.
– matt at shadow of iris
faceless
[This poem was inspired by the work of Esao Andrews.]
