The Precipice

by Timothy Buckeridge

Momentary visions appear
along the winding archipelago
as we stumble on the edge,
solemn and strung,
an anchor for the fallen,
a memory of agony;
the impressed memento
of another too soon.

Led to the river's edge
with transparent intentions,
the water glistens below —
beckoning.
I brush your raven hair,
take your bloodless hand,
feel the rush of air
as you squeeze back.

You met your fate
down by the river
and every year I return,
longing to follow.
So easy to collapse
into the deep,
yet a spark remains
in this shallow soul.