CRIES

I write
these words
to exist you

trap you in this mesh
of consonants &
vowels

flesh you
out
into sounds

here you are again
dressed i
n your yellow dress

a marigold
held between
finger and thumb

offered to me
your young son
the old man who now

writes
to keep you
alive

until the pen
falls from his hand
and
he cries
he cries
he cries

**

Watching my mother dying as outside a badger trundles across a path( the badger is a psychopomp bringing souls across to the other side)and watching my self reflected in the dark window. Remember this simple little moment of her in a yellow dress and being impossibly young and offering me a marigold. Just that. Why that? Clear as day. A beautiful day and this one act etched into my mind with a clarity beyond belief. I thought if I kept writing the words that make up this poem I could keep her alive if only in words. But time must have a stop. Also words.