Gray Skies Sing

In the morning, gray skies speak to us in whispers;
watch your step when you skip down the slope beside the lake.
Beware; white water stallions rise in droves to drown your emerald lane
beneath shattered stone strewn spillways doused in waterfalls of rain.
Remember, muddy meadows weep where pasture used to be;
swallowed up in running streams where grassy lawns once green  
skirt the banks of roaring rivers overflowing to the sea.

Those days were young and strong and so were we;
with backpacks on our shoulders we sped off beyond the lake.
Heavy drops from mossy boughs have never bothered either of us much
hiking through the fog. You started singing and I joined your song
in harmonies of halting, restless thought.  I walk your walk
across a slippery log that spans the creek, inch by inch we went;
then we smiled in sweet relief safely on the other bank.

Your shoulders wide, I match your stride before me;
clad in ruddy plaid and rain, your canvas stuffed with dreams.
We take a break beside the creek, point to eagles nests beyond our reach
munching cookies that you brought for me. This soft and shady spot
among damp moss atop an errant rock we neither feel nor see;
an ancient boulder rolled amid the forest growth around our feet.
Veils of mist surround the quiet of our sheltered peace.

I often sense you here in rainy spells amid the mist;
shoulders clad in flannel red, lost in thought beyond the lake.
Like cherished photographs in dusty albums left in hallowed halls I miss
your rugged face, our separate voices raised in harmonies of faith.
On lonely isolated paths we went our separate ways one day;
shadows come and go amid a downpour whispering your name.
In the dawn gray skies sing, we shall never meet again.