GOOD FRIDAY

The sun is almost hiding beyond the hills.

A blue rock thrush perches nearby, offering a sad melody.

Tea has gone cold in her hand, but she notices nothing.

Words are still ringing in her mind.

Old words. Cynical words.

The hills surrender to dusk, fade to ink.

Shadow-hands glide rapidly across the garden, scaring the thrush away.

She doesn’t move, sensing neither bird nor tea gone cold.

Words are still ringing in her mind.

Wise words from a long-gone voice.

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©2026 CE