STORIES OF OLD
The gesture was slow moving,
I followed the ash of your cigarette
as you swept the air making a point,
telling me the history of your people
moving in years of hard work and tears,
‘My father wore his best suit one Sunday, walking down the lane
in some green field in England, he hummed a tune as he went,
hands in pocket, kicking stones, looking up to birds,
and the summer sun shining on his heart,
filled with a question he was to ask later.’
She looked at me intently, wanting to hold that image longer
her stories of old now covered with dust and old photos,
but alive as she took a last drag and went away
whistling a tune, waving farewell to me.
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