December evening;
long, grey spirals of dusk
skirr in.
The moon hangs
out of its socket,
dripping.

The lovers don´t touch,
final lies freeze their breath,
a brittle, vertical icicle.

Crusted, crackling grass
does not invite to cling
with warming words and strokes;
the sweet intention falls
as the sycamore´s last leaf.
They part, shivering in heavy coats

one laden cloud after another
trudge in
as a dark-faced
funeral procession.

I hurry home feeling like going to a church yard
to bury my daughter´s happiness.

(c) Copyright 2016 Marjon van Bruggen

Marjon van Bruggen has been writing poetry since her high school days, but she has only recently started to write regularly and submit her poems for publication.

Marjon is Dutch, she studied at the University of Amsterdam, and has been living since thirty years in Mallorca, Spain. Now a pensioner, she divides her time between her husband, her house and garden, her beloved dogs and cats, and writing poetry.

Marjon was a finalist in the Dana Award 2015 contest.
She has had some of her work published in I Am Not A Silent Poet.