She calls them
around her bedside
but they stand back
fearful of the withered ghost
hovering on the sheets, until
one, eldest, touches her extended
hand with a finger
as if passed through a flame.
I will be leaving soon
she tells them, if not
tomorrow then a day later
and I will take the hills
for they are mine, where
I ran as a child, tasted first love
and the stream where I swam
as a girl and from which I drank
when summer was entrenched holding
autumn at bay, that too will go with me
so when I am gone, you will
move the sheep and goats
to new pastures.