How dark was my valley - Lew Watts

The faces are black and downcast, but to me he’s unmistakable—the lamp slung over the left shoulder, the slight drag of the right foot.  I wave as he walks through the gates, and he smiles before lighting up.  He ruffles my hair, and the scent of a shift-full of sweat lifts from his clothes. “They found your mother yet?” he asks.

 

choir night

dad clears his voice

down the sink

 

© 2019 Wales Haiku Journal