On An Evening in April
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The water,
the distant buildings,
the small boats nestled
in their own reflections,
all seem captive
to a still
that has settled
the evening,
paused in a lull
between breaths.
There is no wind
to crease the surface
or send a tremor
through the trees -
the only movement
is the gentle drift
of a thought
towards meaning
sleeping somewhere
beneath the quiet.
At times
I have come close
to its place of rest,
felt its presence
edged around
a hollow
as you would
with someone
sunk deep
in the soft comfort
of a bed.
I reach out
but what was there
has gone
leaving nothing
except an imprint,
an indented space,
still warm
in the arms
of an April evening.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2024
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