The hiker crosses a field
treading along the grass
grass as parched as hay
sunlight pouring down his face
stinging his eyes
Could life have been perfect just six weeks ago?
hope blossoming along with the spring?
evenings full of promise as they’d sat at the picnic table in their garden
eating Mediterranean salad and drinking wine?
The hiker reaches the foot of a stile
and nearly stumbles
the afternoon sun scorching and unforgiving
– along with his silent self
© Lawrence Estrey 2021 poetry