My grief is a wordless thing after the first flood, a solitary summer that dried the river beds - and almost filled the field of vision, colourless opaque as cataracts drawn like blinds over windowless eyes - but still I saw the home become a distant speck flying weightless, unearthly for a while a cloud-hopper seeding rain - and there I saw the path we trod now formless, tracked it back though all September's signs swallows had slipped South - and there I knew that grief is an ageless thing it heeds no earthly cares and leaves me breathless - yet still I know how senseless this sense of absence since spirit is a boundless thing
In memory of Martin and wordsmithed from a list of ‘less’ suffixed words for my Poetics Prompt: Less is More, More or Less
PoetryPix 