She sat and watched the suns
Come and go as if they were
Strangers passing on the bitter streets:
A nod, a glance, perhaps a smile.
They rose in the levelled east,
Fought their way to the highs of their days,
Then struggled to climb each obstacle,
The mountains of the west.
She watched from the window
The porch and the gate
As the clock stole the hours,
Spirited them away,
And filed them under ‘lost’.
Emerald vines grew like memories
Creeping slowly over the garden fence,
Tendril-fingers seeping into the grain
Tenderly choking the life unlived.
She watched the marks of the years
Engrave themselves into her hands,
Pathways followed and gone,
And so many dreamed,
Her face the scorched and dried
Map of ages,
Marked, but abandoned before the mark of treasure
Had burned itself into her.
And the suns still came
And the suns still died,
And someone else took her chair.
© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018