The Place Without a Name

A hundred yesterdays stacked behind her
Alone but for the memories there
And possibility’s children, yet to find her
The moments unlived, unborn, are there

And the purple fog beckons from elsewhere
Along the path she was just on before
The in-between, vast silent shelter
Tomorrow is an open door

The space between howls as if the wind of wonder
Swept vast across a cold and barren plane
But there is only stillness, question marks to wander
In neither world, the place without a name

She stands at the threshold of a foot fall
Slowly uncertainty uncoils, stretches, those searching eyes hardly tame
Time will tell the story of us all
She will, and will not be the same

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7 thoughts on “The Place Without a Name

    1. Hi Jane, yes, the purple fog is an image I’ve always returned to, quite out of this world… it marks the in between places, like twilight, like the meeting of past and future… purple is the color of mystery and transformation, at least it has always been for me… and mist keeps its mysteries close, there are no guarantees. But life is like that.

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