Poems by Ann D. Stevenson

(He used to wind them
once a week.)

A dark oak clock
on the mantlepiece
stands bleak
above an empty grate
once a source
of warmth and light.

There is a slight glow
from the clock
on his desk
made of gilded brass
a farewell gift
from his final post.

The grandfather clock
a valued antique
stands silent in the hall
no further chimes
no pendulum swings
hands don't move any more.

The only sound left
is the faintest tick
from a well-worn watch
with its military band
a familiar fixture on his wrist
I now hold it in my hand.

A shadow walks beside me 
in the rising rays
of the sun
I turn a corner
the shadow has gone
I walk on
alone.

Up in the hills
on a well-worn track
I see mists begin to lift
from calm seas
and beloved shores
we had known
before.

I breathe in aromas
of healing herbs
as they waft
and linger on
a reminder of how
his scent remained
long after he had gone.

I feel the warmth
of familiar paths
chirrups of crickets
begin to rise
a butterfly emerges
into the light
spreads its wings
and flies.