I watch the yellow leaves of autumn falling
On coming winter, carpets the land with new colour
My phone rings, down the line I hear the bad news
Late last night our pastor took a new journey
One not planned. His wheels hit a patch of oil
Sending his car over the bridge
Our small village gathered
Out tears mingled with the flowers we held
Candlelight flickered like dancing stars
We could feel our pastor reaching out
Touching the living, one last time
With his soft-spoken words…

© Anita Dawes 2021