My own dear Nora…
I glimpse her
Down on the rocks
So far below.
Her limp frail form
Is tossed about,
Washed by the crashing sea.
Is she alive?
Does she breathe?
Panic rips my soul.
Back again to look and touch…
Oh my God!
This hurts too much.
She’s gone!
Poor little Pet,
Broken and spent…
Just a brittle bundle
Of bird-like bones.
Scoop out the sand
And make it deep
Cool and dark and heavy.
She finds at last
Her peaceful sleep.
And I move on.
– jml (1988)
