Poetry

To Be Still, Simply

I take my meals alone

in the silence

of the empty house,

Usually simple fare:

meat, a salad,

bread, water,

and go for a walk in the chill

of the autumn air,

notepad and pencil

tucked in my back pocket

recording nothing,

but wind,

the rustle of leaves,

and picayune friends

nodding in the waning October light,

My feet lead

down to the brewery

for an ale

and a few pages

delaying

the long night with its

cold bed waiting,

Later, I stoke the

fire for the evening

and watch

flickering

orange tongues on the walls

conceding dust

on pictures of family and

paintings of indiscriminate scenes,

Reflection spills out

then soaks into the night

and I inhale

the quiet stillness

of the sun sinking into

blackness and stars

until the chaos of the day

surrenders

to sleep.

 

Scott Jessop

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