The Goodbye

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Evening light seeps through the leaves

of a drowsy willow, whose arms encircle our little boat.

I lie, my body driftwood upon the water,

lulled into submission by the rhythm of the waves

which brush and breathe against the deck below.

The air is clear, the wind stable with a hint

of late spring fragrance, sprung from lilac fields

somewhere beyond. Wildflowers on the bank

beckon forth a summertime subtlety of colour,

pinpricks of poppy among a stitching of sapphire,

blending into a patchwork sky with cotton clouds.

We set out in the morning,

when the dawn bird foretold the day ahead,

and the night yielded to waking skies. This boat,

which sailed these waters every sepia summer,

shed a tear as we passed each crying brook,

but smiled in the light of the new sun.

My sister now sits at one end, a diary in her lap,

open at a eulogy, from which childhood

laments its departure. The pages are creased,

their flesh wizened and matured with memories.

She cannot see me, my hand reaching for hers,

nor hear my voice, now a flicker of debris on the breeze.

She cannot touch me nor feel my presence; instead, she

watches the sun fall, whispers prayers to the parchment, then

looks ahead to the horizon. I’m here, I say. The evening crow mourns.

Our eyes meet, and the goodbye is spoken.