stone steps
the comfort of a sixteen-century house.
life after war, health after disease
and plenty after famine.
death in bed as grandparents.
the courtyard
in the darkness, my bicycle gleams.
a small golden ribbon still flutters
on the back stays, reminder that once
what mattered most a radiant smile
the street
from this one, who writes now,
bereaved of ribbons and dinners
and your soft touch in the night
parting late into the unknown.
the air
city gusts buffet dead sentiment
streetlights force the eyes to see.
cobblestones clatter, voices rattle
discordant medley of saturday nights.
the park
somewhere here you part into
pointless divertissement, satisfied
your best was done. comforted
by friends. yet ever the question.
arrival
the golden ribbon still flutters
with the wonder of unearned love.