Cynthia Rowe

Across the Seas

camellia buds
somewhere
a chainsaw

After my close friend’s unexpected passing, her elder daughter sends me a photo of the grandchildren from Texas. Perched one behind the other, bright sparked on a white carpeted staircase, they grin in anticipation of Yuletide, of the gifts, of the eggnog that their youthful gram has been making for as long as anyone can remember. Mistletoe curls around the balustrade, a ribbon of confidence that things never change. But, this year, the eggnog will be whisked by another. The distinctive spices that gave it its taste suddenly without flavour.

message in the sand . . .
waves obliterate
the sun