Night fair

David G O'Sullivan

Writing late at night,

I can see out across the lawn.

The lights of the house creep across the grass like a light frost.

But the night is warm; a light breeze comes through the open window.

The wind sweetened by the 100 acres of wood on the distant hill.

I start to think of the decisions I have made

And had made for me.

Money lost, money gained,

Love given and taken,

Objects, hearts, and dreams broken and scattered.

Do you remember when…? She asks me,

standing in the shadow of the hall,

Looking quietly into my room.

A clock chimes as another hour

Of this already late night disappears.

She asked: Do I remember

Taking the children, when they were babies,

To the fair,

And letting them ride on the merry-go-round

By themselves? How we all laughed.

Walking them home

On a night as warm and dark…

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