Gemma Bristow, writer


Then, with all purpose gone
but love, he gave his life
for sleep and dreams
by the pool that was the fulcrum of the forest.
Familiar patterns lulled him down,
the incandescent words, the pouring
of water on the stone.

Then, forever, he would remember
the final thing, her hands,
smoothing away suspicion
from the last of his consciousness.
Touch like the lap of the lake water,
as it whispered at his side
in the rainy season.