Two

Old woman Lies abed Book in her hand By that same hand writ The curtains are drawn The room is black Only the sound of her quiet breath… Young lad Of a distant land Walks by a shelf Of dusty tomes One catches the flight Of his playful eye Draws his hand To its tattered page… Two minds commingle On a kindred shore ‘Cross those many miles A young child's dreams An old woman’s joy The sights and sounds of bygone days Pour from the pages of yellowed pulp Flow like blood to a young boy’s heart. But no one would see In that blackened room As a young lad skipped over stony streets With a tattered book Clutched tight in his arm An old woman smile Half a world away And give her final breath To the waiting dark. (Previously published in Manx Fiction, Dec 1999, Vol 1, No 6)