I Can Still Hear Her Whisper

Deserted wharves stayed with the chill,
Empty reflections pulled around shapes
remembered between arm and chest,
Watching a winter’s quiet sunlight.

Distant sounds came with a tide
to rest beside the fresh face, that
enthralled wandering spirit,
Brought home to pace on the docks.

Songs called from the birds,
Howling, waiting, like the past;
Reminders with ever present voice
passing beyond tired horizon.

Visions fade with a coming fear and
memories from words that touched,
In the perfection of brief moments,
Recorded only through words, too short.

i can still hear her whipser

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