Saturday, November 20, 2010

My Papa…

He lies there under mounds of earth
In a deep, dark, cocoon,
Where no wind blows, no sun shines
The colour of his sky will always be muddy brown
Never a cobalt blue, or a sky blue, or any shade of blue.
Pitch dark.
Cold earth.
He is dead.
They have put him there,
Inside a coffin, wrapped in a shroud
And have walked away,
The mourners
Cupping their palms over their eyes.
Weeping silently, for a life lived majestically.
Time would heal the pain of separation,
Maybe not.
But he will lie there for centuries…
Amidst the sad empty fields.
The distant wind will tear from the trees,
The last of the leaves.
And rip the earth’s skin to shreds
But he will be unmoved
In his regal repose.
And through my soul centuries would pass,
Like a harsh snow eddying and streaming.
And memory’s many subdivisions.
Will dress off their ranks in a glacial spell.
Frost upon frost,
Upon frost.
And…for me,
There is no forgetting, no forgetting.


Last night you wrote your sonnets in  Braille: the commas, parenthesis, ellipses engraved perfectly on my skin- and  I  ...