Sepia - brenemanphoto


(Gallery Featured Below)


Over dusty road and aged bridge,

the old man steps awkwardly,

youthful summer days

tucked away behind nearby trees,

time tapping him politely

on his shoulder.

He’s by himself now,

voices of yesterday mere echoes,

shadows of associations long-since ended,

circumstance the author.

In a cracked voice,

his lips release ancient melodies

into summer breezes –

nature’s soothing breath


them through the cracks

of nearby fence posts

and down dark rabbit holes.

Traces of the relic’s soul


in the wind,

as he departs this place.

~ Bill Breneman ~

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