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Only Child

by John Stocks

Twilight falls into evening
as if time has wearied of eternity.
You count the hours, draw his face again.

This gift of solitude,
some kind of valediction,
the solace of silent space,

You have set the patterns,
the lucid rhythms of your life;
memories that stir you
as you rise are set in stone.

Sometimes your thoughts are light as a breeze
or falling autumn leaves
full of serene revelation,

Sometimes as dark and unfathomable
as the farthest edge of space.

As you count the hours,
then draw his face again,

At such times you remember
that you cannot hold or touch a dream.

Copyright © 2010 by John Stocks

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