Passage

Unseen by the living,
I flit past my old stall.
Fresh melons and berries,
cries Ahmad, my oldest brother.
My mother rests away from the crowds,
picks at her pita, gaunt
from months of mourning me.

An odd slant of sun reveals
me briefly;
a dark-eyed woman,
colorfully dressed, wanting
one last glimpse of her home.

My mother blinks, reaches out,
but I am already gone.

Pris Campbell
©2004

Art: to be added

Return to poetry index II
Return to homepage