The Last Kiss

Since Nan died the black dog circles, the scent of grief in its nostrils, waiting, sensing my vulnerability.

Regret sits heavily on my shoulders, for words said and not said, for journeys not taken, for wasted opportunities, for unsaid goodbyes.

Denial prods me unexpectedly, the reality hard to accept, where is she?

Self pity nags at me, an indulgence not to be tolerated, but it creeps in.

Remorse visits me; could I have done more to ease her mental pain?

Loneliness engulfs me in the quiet times, the darker hours; activity and light loosen its hold.

Anger irks me; it arrives sporadically without real reason.

These emotions, relentless, unyielding, almost my constant companions, take turns to envelop me in a dark mantle called grief, which must be worn, sometimes pushed aside, but never removed, a reminder of the debt which is owed, and paid out of love, with copious tears, but hard to bear.

Life is not the same since Nan died, but she is embedded in my mind, where I go she goes, etched deeply is the memory of our last kiss as she lay still and cold.

Dance Macabre

In gyrating anthropomorphic form,
trees dance to the tune of nature's storm.
Their dance macabre in its wildest stage,            
keeps in tune with the storm’s rampage.
Branches are whipped, leaves blown free,
ecstatic movement in each blond tree.
And when the storm has had its fill,
there is movement in the branches still.

In a dream, I peer into a stand of tiger grass,
but I see no fearful creature burning bright,
no malevolent eyes engender fright.
But my mind will not let the notion pass,
Blake's tiger, stalking in the forest's night.
I long to see that fearsome sight,
with blazing coat and searching eyes, a killer, ready to harass.

Dreams are made of such as this.
When minds unencumbered, roam at will,
when rapid movement of eyelids,
belie the appearance of sleep's bliss.
So, when I lie content, compliant, still,
I obey my mind, do what it bids.

Homeless
This man’s winter is so unkind,
the chill of it reaches marrow, dulls his mind.
The town has no place for him, nowhere to go,
a black, stooped silhouette against sunset’s glow.
Tattered coat, loose chafing boots, without a lace,
his bed tonight, a concrete culvert, or some sodden place.
His lullaby, the hiss and rumble of tyres on tar,
the chance of food, a discarded morsel from a passing car.

The lines we see tell of age,
of earth's upheaval, movement, rage.
They tell of floods, and fire, and drought,
and teach us that, without a doubt,
Mother Earth in all her glory,
tells a most compelling story.

Time and tide shaped this place,
this weathered rock with cratered face.
It reminds me of passing time,
of wasted years, of years sublime.
This rock will slowly fade away,
attacked by wind and salted spray.
It lies exposed as seas expand,
will end its life as grains of sand.

The wave rolls and builds to form a crest,
then tumbles and breaks, but will never rest.
Its undertow pulls as it seaward flows,
and carries all, as the next wave grows.