Widows Walk

Standing on the widows walk
she could see the children playing
the tops of their heads
combed flaxen silk, a perfect part.

That was her, and her blue dress
and the call of the fog horn
even on a clear day.

Soon the bells would follow from the church square
and the children would be gone
the memories and a springtime breeze.

But for now she could see them.

For now, they were almost close enough to touch.