The promise of morning and flea market bustle,
rouses tired hands to lay out old friends.
Faces he knows as well as his own
watch with timeless abandon.
He sets each precisely with intimate touch,
soft as forgotten caresses;
gathers their stories, pulling each close
in the bittersweet truth of parting.
Come afternoon, those hands will slow;
kissed cold by the late Autumn air
and a passing whisper in his ear –
somewhere a bell is tolling.
– Ryan Stone