I used to come, a  loving – but transient – visitor

until I came for good.

Now this place holds my pillow and my dog’s bed year round

and the flowering seeds of my child come to visit me instead

On one day in autumn when the leaves launched themselves into the wind

their orange and gold burst forth over verdant meadows that cushioned their fall

and the rain chased them into rivers and creeks

My grandson stood on the pack horse bridge

He leaned over the side and stared

as a thousand tiny boats of copper, gold and bronze

swirled and twirled upon the fast-flowing creek

As each boat disappeared under the stone arches

he waved his arm like a puppy dog’s tail

“Bye! Come again next year!”

The very same words the children used to call out to me

The sun sparkled on the water and danced in his eyes

I wonder where they’re going? he said

He looked at me then and his smile expressed the unspoken words

Just for a moment I knew we were thinking the same thing

My heart was so full I nearly cried for joy

I don’t have to wave goodbye anymore


1 Comment

Filed under biographical, Poetry, Travel

One response to “Mended

  1. All these years on, what’s your writerly pen conjuring with now?

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