Kites and Ghosts.
I stopped writing when we went to war.
Did battle day and night.
Stopped writing when the weather died.
The kite she dropped mid flight.
Red and sturdy on a backdrop of grey. She dropped to the earth, with a clatter she lay.
Still by the sidewalk in the middle of the road.
What had I done? How you would I hold?
They vanished in my minds eyes as reminders of my life.
Hollow little ghosts with a hollow little wife.
I could talk but couldn’t see.
My fingers through thin air.
I could listen, couldn’t hear like a cloud kissing a bear.
I fused a tangled daydream with the memory of a kiss.
Tied a noose of solitude and kissed goodbye to this.
How I stopped writing when we went to war.
The soldiers all heroic.
How I silenced the horns, the bugles won’t play, all broken, empty, stoic.
© G.P Williamson 2018