by Doug Bolling

Wind lashing in over the north coast
scattering the dunes where once
we climbed, made dreams
out of sand and pail,
too young to weigh and measure
whatever ahead the good
the bad.

0ld age brings it. A fondness
for wrack and rend, fragments
from those who went before
didn't return.

My shadow follows me
knowing more than I,
date uncertain still hidden.

Still, I patrol these ruins
as though to say I
told you so.
Even in slow fade I hold
world in brain's palm.
try for words that gather
sand and wind into a
bouquet telling more
more, not the less
only shadows claim.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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