Postcard

The postcard lies upon the table
A faded picture of a dusty road with elms on either side
Touching on a long brick wall
A hill just visible to the right,
Fog drifts across the lane
Blurring that which lies beyond,
Brown and grey press against evaporating light,
No address disclosed by the presence
Of a steeple or plaque upon the wall,
The words written in black say that
You are well and nothing more
Is worth the telling,
So I shall place this card upon
The entrance table against the vase
Of fading flowers,
Allowing myself the time to accept
That I am no longer able
To travel beyond the walls
Where once we lived.