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My Mother the Sun

retires, wrapped in a rosy
belt of Venus.
Losing her loving warmth
I am shadowed in silence.
No violas bed me,
lullabied only
by absence
to isolate
in a darkening segment,
homed alone,
as the waters rise.

I never learned to swim
in the pool at North Berwick.
Only my eyes, salted
to serve as orphans
tell me things
I wish I did not know.
I hear the words
I do not want to hear.
through another night
I wait again
with my companion

M.E.Muir is a Scot living in London, former teacher and business consultant, whose work has recently been published in online and print magazines eg Dawntreader, Dempsey and Windle, The Curlew, Carillon, The London Grip, Morphrog, Ink Sweat and Tears, Porridge, and of course The Poetry Village.

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