Far from Bordeaux, a hamlet straddles a river. A woman lives there in a room in the house of a dying man.
In the mornings she cooks him porridge and wipes the dribble from his chin.
In the afternoon she sneaks into his library. She takes sheets of time-stained notes from a drawer in the oak desk where he once sat.
In the evening she copies his words, and the distant coughing never distracts her.
At night she drops his notes into the river. The black ink blooms across the sodden sheets as his unpublished words sink to the stoney bottom.
Great piece of poetic writing.
Thanks Tim! 🙂
Dark, deep, brooding, mischievous – with a masterful twist – thanks for transporting us.
ah! thanks so much Hamza
How sad. So many unanswered questions. Great job!