by Lisa Reily
a blur of trees, branches thick with snow,
bent with the weight of white.
chocolate mud as we step from the bus
into a flurry of snowflakes,
skidding our way to the café, passing fat stray dogs
who know the food is bad enough
that scraps are on their way.
back on the bus to eat sesame bars,
to sip hot coffee from our new thermos;
a gift from your sister on our visit back home.
leaving Sofia behind and heading for Skopje,
vast white sheets across fields
and mountains covered, I knew
we would never return home to live, or work.
you, standing under an umbrella by Lake Ohrid,
as snow falls all around you. a big smile on your face.
the world around us silent,
but for the tap of ice on your umbrella.
Lisa Reily is a former literacy consultant, dance director and teacher from Australia. Her poetry has been published in several journals, such as Amaryllis, London Grip, The High Window, Panoplyzine, and The Fenland Reed. You can find her at lisareily.wordpress.com.
(Also read Lisa’s poem before her mother died from the January 20, 2020 Weekly. – Elephants Never)
Photograph by Manny Moss shared under Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic license (CC BY-ND 2.0).