Belfast

In a land with forty shades of green
a stream
gently flows, charting an uncertain path
to an unknown destination.

Leaves, autumn's snow, drop
unrushed, into the shallow end
while in the bend,
bubbles pause
to speak in hushed tones.

In the distance, H&W cranes
watch over a city,
while a mother,
getting ever smaller,
but just as constant, no less stoic,
waves in a rear-view mirror.

Somewhere, in a warm corner
of the memory,
there is laughter.

In the air,
thoughts unravel,
while below, a patchwork of fields
stretch out
like a grandmother's quilt,
well-worn,  familiar,
quietly falling apart.

It is only the body that travels, never the heart.