Shawtuc Hill
by Patricia Brodie


Snow covers the frozen river
climbs its banks and sparkles across the wetlands.
Treetops, a thousand arthritic fingers,
clutch at a china blue sky.

Not wanting to stay indoors
we put on boots, jackets
trudge through the meadow with the dog.
Snow, so deep, now stained by a setting sun
stills our talk.

Back home, we phone our children:
free spirits speak of jobs, faraway lives
as we watch night crawl across the frigid landscape.
Icicles hang from the eaves,
prison bars across our bedroom window.






Copyright 2021 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.