She walks through the empty morning

Jane Dougherty Writes

Painting by Van Gogh

1273px-Van_Gogh_-_Seineufer_bei_der_Pont_de_Clichy

In the cool of the morning,

I walk beneath the roses,

Light sifted pink and white,

Perfume dripping with the dew.

Birch tree drips with birdsong,

Falling in dapples about my feet.

I walk, and the mist parts,

Rising from the river into the blue air.

I walk, listening to the quiet rush

Of the tressed water,

Tangling and untangling,

On its way to the sea.

In the cool wind from the west, I walk,

Listen to the silence falling,

At my back the sun rises,

At my face the rising wind.

Wind from the sea in my face,

And instead of the honey of your lips,

I taste the salt,

Though I cannot tell,

Perhaps it is the taste of my tears.

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