Playing with Form: Villanelle

The Grave in the Road
 
The morning light is tinged with gold.
The city awakes with a chorus of sighs,
and a new-born breeze skims dust on the road.
 
Dutiful husband does as he’s told.
I watch from my balcony way up high,
the morning light still tinged with gold.
 
The digging and the sun both take a toll.
My eyes on his flexing back and thigh,
as the new-born breeze skims dust on the road.
 
It looks like a grave, some kind of hole
dug into the dirt of the road, so dry,
but the morning light is still tinged with gold.
 
The freshly turned layers of earth unfold.
Averting my eyes, I do not pry
but watch new-born breeze skim dust on the road.
 
Incense sticks send prayers for the soul.
The wife breaks down with a silent cry
and the morning light remains tinted gold
but the new-born breeze dies on the road.

 
Further information

 
© Ammie-oy 2010
 

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