Friday, February 10, 2012
The sun is setting low
As she sits on the moss covered bank
Her line drifting with the blow
Of the brisk autumn wind.
She dips her toes in the cool water
And sniffs the change in the air
As the fire begins to burn behind her.
Her partner has gone
Her fields long been fallow
She pauses and remembers
As the light gradually fades.
She takes her catch over to the fire
Sets in on a small pan
Translucent smoke rises above her
As the vestiges of day come to the end.
Finishing grace a sense of calm surrounds her
An epiphany of life in Autumn.
Her winter is coming and she knows it.
And the hope of the grave.