Turning of the season,
from life
to death.
Ghostlike we move from one to another.
Ends and beginnings,
beginnings and ends.
Tears falling, silently
upon sodden soil.
Like apples, falling from the tree.
Bruised.
Still,
hidden within, a heartbeat
waiting for Lambtide.
©Shullie H Porter 2017
I find Her in this, and see She’s there.
LikeLike