Dust

Dust

In life’s precious remnants and all that’s good,
from the creeping dawn till the sun’s last ray,
the dust of us settles where we once stood.

In the quiet streets of the neighbourhood,
in cribs and cradles where our infants lay,
in life’s precious remnants and all that’s good,

where the children thrived as we knew they would,
on the golden sand and the sparkling bay,
the dust of us settles where we once stood.

In moments we did the best that we could,
whilst bereft of the light and cloaked in grey,
in life’s precious remnants and all that’s good,

in well-meant promises misunderstood,
quiet goodbyes at the end of the day,
the dust of us settles where we once stood.

In abandoned churches on oaken wood,
where hymns of our childhood no longer play,
in life’s precious remnants and all that’s good,
the dust of us settles where we once stood.

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1 Comment

Filed under Poetry, Villanelle

One response to “Dust

  1. Brendan

    This is finely wrought — you’re so good at these formal bouquets of meter and rhyme — which makes the ennui of dust all the more bittersweet. Our ghosting through this world. Yet even that is so resonant. Nice work.

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