Old woman <br />Lies abed <br />Book in her hand <br />By that same hand writ <br />The curtains are drawn <br />The room is black <br />Only the sound of her quiet breath… <br /> <br />Young lad <br />Of a distant land <br />Walks by a shelf <br />Of dusty tomes <br />One catches the flight <br />Of his playful eye <br />Draws his hand <br />To its tattered page… <br /> <br />Two minds commingle <br />On a kindred shore <br />‘Cross those many miles <br />A young child's dreams <br />An old woman’s joy <br />The sights and sounds of bygone days <br />Pour from the pages of yellowed pulp <br />Flow like blood to a young boy’s heart. <br /> <br />But no one would see <br />In that blackened room <br />As a young lad skipped over stony streets <br />With a tattered book <br />Clutched tight in his arm <br />An old woman smile <br />Half a world away <br />And give her final breath <br />To the waiting dark. <br /> <br /> <br />(Previously published in Manx Fiction, Dec 1999, Vol 1, No 6)<br /><br />Laurence Overmire<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/two-14/
