Ray Templeton Echoes Not like that. More the way it works in stories, but now it was the scarecrow searching for a heart. 'Your passport to heaven,' someone said. But no, call it fulfilment of a pledge, a way to keep some sacred trust. So, walk up from the road — tangled roses, unkempt paths, lawns gone to seed, herb garden overgrown. Knuckles on the door and cautious entry, to the sudden scent of — vinegar and lilac? Maybe. Even pencil marks under an eraser leave a trace. No need to dress this up: I'm caught, like the fossil we found on the shore one year, life's shadow in blue-grey stone. Caught by a promise, not made in my words, but in someone else's echo. |