Clouds of Dirt

Dirt kicked up with folly, laughter, and play;

ignorance was bliss as we played board games.

“He’s gone,” we overheard our mother say.

There was no response as we called his name.

All our eyes were wide and stomachs lurching;

as we held back tears and ran whilst praying.

Clouds of dirt kicked up as we were searching,

Not accompanying laughter, playing.

The river flowed as steadily as God,

A contradiction to my rushing pulse.

Windborne beneath our feet was gravel; sod.

Mental movie screen previewing demulce.

A wave of peace at last—the sight ahead:

the lost and little boy beneath the bed.

Iambic Pentameter Poem

April, 2024

@lyndibreypenmanship

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