Last Meeting

Listen to the nightingale. Do not dispute the loon.
The truth is told by lonely things calling under the moon.
Brought to the brink, their plaintive truth we cannot impugn
as we glide to their music, out into the lagoon.

Waves form spreading circles around our small pontoon.
Internal sorrows follow them, lapping a soulful tune.
Slanted columns of moonbeams are swallowed by each dune.
Like our brief encounter, over too soon, too soon.

Prompt words are brink, column, internal and impugn. Image by Damir Spanic on Unsplash, used with permission.