Penny Harter

Twilight Walk

The duck has twisted its head to bury its beak in soft back feathers. One dark eye, half open, shines in the twilight.

reading glasses on
she studies the map of
her aging hand

Beside the lake, the small red leaves of a hedge glow in the dusk like the rim of the sky in still water. Below the old stone bridge, the water's black; a few pale leaves float by, dark spaces between them.

winter night –
bare branches host
the stars

Your father liked twilight walks you say, as you lean on the cold stone ledge, a hedge spray burning in your hand.

the silence
of snow on tombstones –
even your name buried