[Image from Pinterest]
A lake. Not a mirror by which to see
herself, but a window to forgetting.
Liquid, still or stirred by something unseen.
She sits, prays to memory’s loss, hope; waiting.
Tears innumerable has she shed. Bees
have been born, raised, worked, and then died. Passing
of time, of seasons spent here, slips by. Trees
bud, leaf, fall and bare their souls in watching
the woman who longs to forget. Not yet,
sings the lake in silent song of lapping
on the grassy banks, as if she should let
instead her feet be caressed, skin be met
by cool embrace of remembrance, dreaming
of her boy: her only love, drowned right here.
[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]