I step outside, a days work done,
As twilights' brief lights wane...

My pen is poised above this page,
an artists' canvas, blank and white...

Dark I suffer in sorrow still
from deaths too soon departed love...

I am a tax collector,
I will tell most everyone...

A coroner's slab
for love's return...

Once she trudged with me to school,
through a biting winter's day...

To stand up high on Hadrian's Wall,
past meets present. History shows...

Limbs grow weak I fall
Resting near my birthing stone...

To know the fate my heart feels not,
my rose, release a petal new...

Hands to fists
Knuckles white...

Small drifts urge me moving forward,
I yearn to ebb in close to fill...

I'll write a short poem,
more often than not...