A russet-etched crone
Crouches in silhouette,
Clinging to memories
Of cradle-gold hair.
Cocks a pale, rheumy
Eye beyond her fire,
To ward off the dark claws
And night-crawling
Hunters.
A scant minute longer,
A life-moment more,
Until, head nodding,
She submits
And sleeps.
(Published in Poetry Nottingham, England./Winner of Poetry Nottingham contest.)
elysabeth faslund
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sunset-42/
