The grass grows still.
Gulls remain a-wing

Their cries unfilled, despite.
One step follows another,

Paused perhaps,
Unwilled for a moment.

The sun rises, falls, still.
Stillness is still, still.

Happiness is unaffected,
Sadness unmannered,

Grief raw – none of these change.
The swing of plaid

at the back of the knee,
this too remains – implying

something does not.
That vassal doubt perhaps?

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *