There is power of place here,
Solid as mortared brick -
Ethereal as finespun memories.
I sip Earl Grey tea
On a waning winter day,
Remembering dark ale drunk
In the sunshine of youth at
That table, and that one by the
Pot-bellied stove.
Decades slipped away …
And his eyes are still the bluest blue.
_________
My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads.
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