Innate strength is hidden beneath
her delicate features,
forged in fires of relentless stress,
also, and always, hidden.
Shoes polished to a shine.
If only spared a glance, one could
consider her appearance bland,
until she smiled
and the full spectrum would shine
from her face.
Perfect crease in my trousers.
The power to rejuvenate
in her touch.
Gentle, reassuring and knowing,
yet firm, strong and in control.
Button up my last starched shirt.
She was reluctant in her leaving,
knowing there would be
a space to fill,
a void in the fabric of life.
Brush the lint from my overcoat.
Sometimes hope and faith
and power of will are not enough,
prayer provides no cure
and the disease runs rampant.
Lock the door behind me.
There were no tears on that final
day — against her nature in every way —
she smiled, stroked my hand
and talked of our
times at the shore.
Secure my hat, head for the coast.
For The Sunday Whirl wordle