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?