So this was the cloud,
the shadow, the wing
passing over the garden,
the paddock, the hill:
heavy, funebral at first,
then ascending, shedding
its burden, lightening,
fleeting; finally freed
from your circumscribed world
bounded by bedside,
the window, your chair;
released from the fears
of infirmity, creeping,
dreaded companions
of ailments that weaken.
There are always regrets
for the living to bear,
always the child's voice
that pipes its despair:
'Don't leave me just yet,
I still need you to be there;
although I don't visit,
your presence consoles me...'
I hope your thoughts flew
to the land of your youth,
the farm near the Baltic,
forget-me-knot woods,
a little girl skipping
with wind in her hair:
it gives me some solace
to think of you there...
For Anni
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №112022704535
Свидетельство о публикации №112022704535
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