I hear it every day,
your voice at the door,
going by the window
as I leave the room.
And hearing it I miss it,
the very ends of words,
drifted, obtuse, unwhole,
stunted memories and younger days.
The garden, awash with colour,
encloses us. I follow, losing you ahead,
glimpsed and lost, glimpsed:
your shades mingling,
your colours a moving part
in the frozen moment.
The sound of your voice carries from the gate,
talking as I reach the path. A click and it closes,
your hand on the latch. Voice fading,
I stand in the garden and wait.
© Amanda J Harrington 2016
