By Caspian Darke
I crossed the border at dusk, the world fallen hallow,
her name a stone in my mouth, a prayer I would not swallow.
Once I wore green, once I was someone’s daughter,
but grief settled beside me and would not move.
It followed like a patient wolf, waiting for night to deepen.
The path led me through fields where nothing grew but torment.
My heartbeat counted the lapsing time.
I looked for the flower that once bloomed within my garden,
but found only wind threading the grass,
soft as a cradle left empty in morning.
There is a meadow here, colorless and gleaming,
where moonlight pools and nothing casts shadow.
It is neither the world above nor the world below,
but a hush between.
In that meadow I called for her
the child I could not hold,
the dream I carried longer than life allowed.
No gods answered. Only the quiet.
But the grass parted, silver and slow,
and I saw her, frail as a tear,
her form a gloaming nightingale, her song a light that held me.
I gathered her in my arms,
sang the song I had saved in my blood,
rocked her gently, feeling the weight of what was lost
and the warmth of what might still be held.
At sunrise, my nightingale faded.
My arms were empty, but my chest was light.
Nothing returned but myself,
changed by silver and song.
Her name now gentle on my tongue,
my sorrow greening at the edges.
I walk the waking world alone,
a meadow where once there was only stone.
Thanks for reading this piece. To support our mission and advance your writing career, please consider purchasing our book Becoming A Professional Author.
