In the cold of the night

In the cold of the night

where no stars shine,

and voices fall heavy and harsh as lost love,

and the wind whines among the stones,

I taste the memory of larks

and sunshine on the grass,

a pool limpid as fresh air,

and in its depths, where the crabs hide,

a hoard of glittering pebbles;

those times before care and wear and tear,

when I could dip my hand in cool water

to catch a red stone,

and the magic would roll,

slow and rich like green waves

and ripple in silver pools at my feet.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

11 thoughts on “In the cold of the night”

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