Coming to Grief

I walk with you again, this crowded
gravel path. We pass beneath dying

elms, fire maples, thick oaks. Soon
bats will rise up, above the trees.

My hair clings to my skull in the rain.
I hear the river moving stones in its bed.

The rain stops. Now, spots of sun,
the steady dripping from leaves.

I come to you as to an old lover. You,
of all the rest, will never leave me.

 

I'm posting an old poem for this week's prompt, which is Traveling Companions.

Comments

I like your strong end words especially that "dying." It echoes the title and mood!

[Christine]

Somany strong, vivid images. I think the one I like best is:

I hear the river moving stones in its bed.

It brings to mind an intimate knowledge of the river, on the level of sound most humans can't hear.

[Jo]

Word perfect, this has gorgeous flow.

[Dick]

A sad & dignified memoir, small but perfectly formed!

[susan]

I know your companion very well. We've walked together so much I wait without dread or fear of our next meeting.

[Qazse]

I admire your poems.

[...deb]

It is all that they said, and the river moving stones is what captured me, too. That line captures all - I can hear, and feel, the grating low rumble and clatter.

[SB]

I wrote this poem several years ago, but have found many occasions since to use it...