Walking with my father

by Alex Scott

There’s something about walking just before sunset,
those moments before the sky has made room for the moon,
when the sinking sun’s edges sharpen around it’s skin
until it looks domed enough to reach out and cup.

There’s something about the way the grass moves underneath
your feet, hardened by morning and calmed by lazy afternoons,
flattened by tip-toes in wellington boots, the only thing to show
for two decades of our strolls – longer footprints on the path.

There’s something about seeing stars wrapped up in pink,
the kind I’m sure white feathers fall from before they land
on your shoulder. The kind I imagine my father thinks of
when he talks about a little girl who twinkled in his eye.

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