Sunday, April 4, 2010


By John Ogden

When the sun hangs heavy in the sky,
Dark and rich over hills and spires,
I watch its glittering face in the loch
And think of her.

For ten years I have waited,
Waited and prayed, fought with myself
Shed silent tears, hiding them away
With a wipe of my sleeve.

The other villagers look down on me with sad eyes.
“She isn’t coming back” they say.
But I don’t believe them. Can’t.
And so, everyday, I return to the lake.
I return to the lake, and I wait.

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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.


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