at times it comes back -
in my palms I hold
the finch eggs
of your eyes,
and with fingers mute,
try to unweave you
from the wickerwork
of white-coated voices,
the flat horizons of heart
monitors and the grass
sting of death;
my hand hushed, and still
on your shoulder,
rooted in the silence
of the inexpressible:
call your brother and sisters
in the presence of shadows
I touched you in the sea
rippling out to the sun,
in the dust of the Little Karoo
clinging to your footsteps,
in the wind, blue and old,
and in the water and the light
in my hand
Bronze trophy winner
Adding your comment:
This is touches me with so many different emotions.
