In annual repetition he came,
Sorrow sweeping the path before him
with long, languid strokes of the broom.
Swish, swish, swish,
Paralleling the sound of the wind
rifling through dying leaves clinging tenaciously
to the drowsy trees that lined his way.
He never missed,
Never would, as long as breath still
filled his atrophied lungs.
Words spun their webs of memory around his head
as he shuffled ever closer to his goal.
Patiently she waits as ever, unmoving,
soused by watery morning light
too dilute to convey warmth enough for the history
which ran uncurbed through vivacious veins.
Cold now, bereft of the vitality he loved
and thrived upon for years of gold.
He brought her roses the colour of sunshine.
