Transition

Where we tread – seldom sees the
sun of summers now abbreviated days.
Blackberries un-ripenened mass, on mass
as through the scumbled leaves – she skips
innocence still playful about her lips.

She finger flicks the plentiful untouched fruit
scratches running arms length
delicate pink, across her tender
childlike skin.

We stop, catching the richly spiced
choral woodland sound.
She stops to look
wanting to ask – before I place a finger
softly against her mouth.

I sense she understands
with her eyes now wide, mourning
this, the passing of her childlike
deflection

As she – the girl
who once was:

had suddenly became me…

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