You are no longer
a child
innocent or forgiven.

Slower now,
dreams have taken flight
with butterflies
and *****
thrown beyond your reach.
No longer child-bright,
you stand in court
where age
grows upon the wall
and eats the air.

Your shadow lingers
frightened at the door
unconvinced
then bounds away
to chase a dream.

Listen and you will hear me
In the rustles
The creaks
The rainfall
In the quietest time
I breathe your name
Evenly
Gently
Teasing your ear

On Sunday’s Canvas
our footprints sketch a path
across the sand.
Out of focus, others dot the beach.
Hands drawn tightly together,
our talk ebbs and flows.

This is Sunday’s Cove,
the rim where rivers end and tell their stories.
Afternoon sea and sky run together until
we are surrounded by what we feel.
Sand shines in a festive way.

Here at the edge of the world,
night is celebrated with wine in a water glass.
Beyond the surf, we do not hear the silence.
We wake every morning to brush new paths.

Your words unfold like a map
marking the journey through a single day,
made from the comfort of my chair.
You wield your vision like a weapon,
bold slashes with your pen
leave me vanquished in your mirror.

Now the room lies still,
the single pulse your hard-bound words,
taking shape the way a fence crawls across a winter field,
wielding life like a paintbrush,
your pictures more exciting
than the margins where I’ve played.