feistysherpani

i. Return Through a dark tunnel of bent birch and cedar I walk. Soft moss on cobblestone. Home. The tilted bird bath drips with tea coloured rain. Vines snake up old walls even as the sandstone crumbles. Decaying gutters sag with sad, welcoming smiles, heavy with dead leaves and the fallout of terracotta tiles. ii. Memory On her lap, in the evening, swinging on the front porch chair. Humming a lullaby, she whispers softly and marks with a brush of her ringless finger, magpie and minor, chicken and hen and then, soft kisses on my cheek for bed. At the bus stop, she is squinting and waving and waiting. At hometime, she i