The End

R.A.D. Stainforth moistens dry words on the page...

I am the last

walk with you,

watch gulls hover,

cry sharp in habitual air.

Fingers in my hair,

you crown me

lover of the end ―

all previous castles

now wave-washed clean.

Already grown full,

there is nowhere else to grow,

but with you ―

legs stretch out,

like pink-colored wings,

rearrange the passage

between.

tk/November 2012

Squall, 1986, by Andrew Wyeth

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