The Village on Windsor Lane

A grey village at noon.


A grey village at noon.
Sleep and tendrils sprawl
beneath the sun.
Two men dig
an enormous room
with earthen walls,
a roof of stone.


A painter feathers whitewash
above your withered breasts.
Where the flakes peel
new paint spreads in pools.
A truck is piled
with stunted trees and tangled vines,
clipped, chopped,
carried away.
The flower urn is speckled white,
a brittle wreath is too.
At night,
the urn bears flowers
that fade at dawn.


Yours is a silent house.
You liked houses
where your heart was yours,
where you breathed in whispers,
where the sounds heard
were your sounds,
where the air held a stale perfume
until you noticed and let it go.


You dream a dream:
A painter paints a house on Windsor Lane,
one color with one brush
in a warm stone village of stunted trees.
The dream ends.

A last sound of one breath
merging with your own.

©1979, me

Featured image


Author: makingsenseofcomplications

I have an academic background in literature and, separately, science. My career has been in industry in positions of increasing responsibility assisting in the drug development process - one of the most amazing intellectual pursuits of the human mind, among many other amazing intellectual pursuits. I am interested in films, philosophy, history, art, music, science (obviously), literature (also obviously), some video gaming, human behavior, and many other topics. I wish there was more time in every day because we have a world that is full of amazing phenomena that are considered too superficially by too many. Although my first and last names are fictional, I think I believe in all of the stuff you read here, although I retain the right in perpetuity of changing my thoughts about anything written herein.

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