The Walk

I wake a full hour early
for the rare gift
of a walk in the woods
with my father.

He is a silent giant
among misty ghost gums.
I tell him, Watch!
See how fast I can run.

He doesn’t yell when I trip
and fall, but lifts me
with unfamiliar,
calloused hands.

At the end of the trail
I study my grazes—jagged
and bloody. He tells me
he’s leaving my mum.

On the walk home
I gaze at the gum trees
and fragmented clouds, thinking
they should look different somehow.

Ryan Stone

first published at Poetry Nook, 1st place Week 185

Back Road

In this threadbare landscape
where patchwork fields
stretch to the horizon,
a red barn slouches—
weathered and worn
through all the long days,
paint flaking under the sun.

Surrounded by wheat husks,
each stalk croaking secrets,
forgotten, a scarecrow slumps—
guardian of a dead land.
Tattered garments hang limp, button
eyes gaze sightless. Last sentinel
against encroaching shadows.

And still, there is beauty here.
Where barn, field, and scarecrow
converge, where eagles cry

on the wind—a tale of courage
and heartbreak. A tale
of life’s simple grace.

Ryan Stone

In Passing

After all the years, the heart-shaped
promises, a Ponts des Arts love lock
one Spring, it has come now to this —
a sterile room, too-small-for-two bed,
plastic flowers, faint urine smell.

Standing bedside, she strokes and hums,
remembers a warm night by the sea.
The setting sun kisses white hair
golden. Tremors become twitches,
become silence.

Ryan Stone

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