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

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.