A poem

I can hear, if these suburban sounds abate, voices lost on the wind
swirling, whirling around my straining ears, sincere and soulful
calling out to me.

I write wistfully to honour the possibility of a world I cannot see
where all those who loved, laughed and lost are tossed on waves
of the endless air.

I don’t know if I craftily conjure these whispered entreaties
as I sip my morning coffee, mystery has its’ allure, I’m sure
if they see me then they would cry.

I sit and drink on in that reverie, knowledge seems so uncertain,
shadows of life and death a thin lace curtain blowing in the wind
like my room welcomes cool air after heat.

If we meet dear friend in that evening light, we may pass by silently
caught up in thought, unaware of how close our life strands are
seeking to connect, always connect.

Chris Papps
Glanville 2025