by Elizabeth Southwood
Gray white-edged clouds
of white blossoms seeming to sweep them
along like quaint hearth brooms made from
our ancient plum
with pale green lichen crusting soft-gray limbs.
I limp by your side,
cautious from tripping...
Was the view always this clear?
Houses like white gift boxes
ribboned with waving green,
rimmed on the far side by
slate-dark bay, camel hills and sky.
We stand on the edge
of the cliff every day.
I hang onto the plum’s rough trunk
and stare at the view,
memorizing it with you.