Memories

• Emily Muirhead
• Poetry
• 2010

The biting air still held their fragrance,
That tell-tale smell that pressed deeper the memories already imprinted in my mind,
The ground still carried their doggy warmth,
Where bodies had curled up as they waited for the coming of darkness.
The night still held their movements,
Creeping among the trees like thieves in the night,
On paws of a leathery feel.
Elusive, silent.
The trees still held their secrets,
Caught up in the leaves and branches.
I still held my heartache,
Harsh, deep, sorrowful.
I lifted my head and howled,
Letting out the sadness of me, a wolf;
For the only memory I carried was their aroma,
The only feeling their warmth,
Their only movements my very own,
And their secrets, those that I invented in my mind.