Do you remember our stone house
at the road's end, at the moor's edge
where gales raved in the sedges
where the clouds' low architraves
lay in leaden sheets, and the land
waited the primroses' return?
Do you recall the promises
we made, making the windows fast,
locking the door, locking in our words,
safe with the cobwebs and dust,
a promise to return to these
old stones, to rub the windows clean,
restock the shelves, lay warming fires?
The day we named has passed.
Rain drifts down from the distant hills.
I make my hands do their small tasks,
try not to wonder where you are
Posted in response to Tess Kincaid's photo prompt for Mag 188.
The photograph of Haworth Moor, Yorkshire, UK is by Mark Haley,
