Any given Sunday…
Published in
Jan 31, 2021
He searches for you
through unplowed fields
or tired weeds.
He kisses the stone
above your interred feet,
to relive tears that never cease to weep.
He pours cognac to dampen
the same plot of earth
as his last visit,
whispering familiar prayers in self-deceit.
You are gone
and in desperation, he tries
to concede defeat.
© Wilfreda Edward 2021
