• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 03
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The last time

You combed my hair,
It was a warm afternoon and
We sat in the verandah
Overlooking the wild vegetation.
Your fingers rough with age and work,
Head bent forward, do you remember mother?
The moment hung like the midges in the air
Stirring scarce.

You slip by my dreams
Like the sun drifting in clouds.
Droplets of time dripping from the yellow duck
Of childhood, cracked at the bottom,
Creating ripples in still waters
That I sit in tonight.
What you may have felt when I had left
Neither coming up nor drowning.