As the heat of August evenings
seeped into your home above the trees
in this Mediterranean port,
your windows opened like sails to
catch a breeze, any slip of wind.
From the street below the sad
sound of an accordion floated up
like a prayer, but you, in your
skirt of fire couldn’t hear it.
Anyway, it was just another
prayer, like all of ours and all of
yours. None of them were answered.
It’s Winter now and cold here
in this mountain village on
the other side of the world.
I wanted to be with you when you
left us, to be in the crowd on the
platform waving and crying as
your train pulled away with the sound
of our tears growing fainter every
second until you could barely see
us anymore as you passed into the
white silence with only the comfort
of knowing how much all of us loved you.
© J.M.Keating 2012