I wait on table; the tips are below average.

Our small village is dying. Tourists pass us by,

as if we have vanished from the land.

I sigh a lot these days.

I remember reading in the good book, As above, so below.

Daffy talk because I still don’t know what it means.

I wish I could lift myself high, fly away

Watch the people below become too small

to figure out what I’m looking at.

Vanished, like our poor village,

leaving me to float away…

© Anita Dawes 2021