My body burned
- a fire I'd never known.
The pools in my eyes
commanded me to swim,
my heart wished to lay down
beside him,
but instead I just drove.

Headlines that read
Missing Man From Mt Martha
circulated for days.

She told me he'd often spoke of running away,
and her love for him clung fiercely to the fairytale
in vain.
Perhaps we should have known better,
but the tales fooled us.
Prince Charming will save the maiden
but who is going to save him?

The floors caught me
as I collapsed under
the weight of a phone call.

They found him
in romantic slumber
among the forest -
a tree and his throat
playing tug of war
with a length of rope.
It's hard to say
who really won.

The chaple was too small
to cradle all who loved him.
Red work shirts lined the doorway
like poppies.
Friends wore top hats
embellished with ribbons
and sunflowers.
Sisters consoled their grief
in suits and coloured bow ties.
An old music teacher played a violin,
so haunting and beautiful.

I've never known grief.
Memories of his smile
and hazy nights in his car
have seen my every sunrise since.
I see him in strangers
and passers by on the street
and my heart stops
in these fleeting moments
of illusion.
Resuscitated by reality,
they're gone as quickly
as they came.

I often think I should visit his grave,
place a flower on his tombstone
or just have a conversation.
I regret that only after he'd died
I realised
we might have understood each other
better than we knew.

I wore blue flowers on my dress,
white flip flops on my feet.
I call this summer casual.
That was my dream. You
are not buried yet.  Soon.
I see me in the chaple
working the crowd.
Flowers in my hair.

You died on a Tuesday morning.
I was eating pizza.    I looked and
saw the flat face of death in your
beautiful eyes. You had no response.
I sat in the chair I occupied while
you were alas living.

There was no way of knowing your
deeps and shallows ebbed to the
middle of Tuesday.  There was no
more of you in my eye and I was
quiter than ever.

My dress is in the mail, my shoes
are in the closet.  I will wear blue
flowers on my dress and white  
sandals. I call this liberation.
I am released from dull gray and
the dumb dun serge you wanted
me to wear.

I sit here without tears having cried
for two months.  You are long away
and if not thinking of me you are
at last  peacefully free of trying.


Caroline Shank

I sit here on the window ledge night after night burning away just to give light. I see the same old shadows flicking on the wall but are these haunting shadows that mean nothing at all.
I sit here in the cold as my wax melts away time for my memarous as l am growing old.
When l was young l stood high in a hall with many other candles we just had a ball we were a beautiful sight on a festive night on a crystal chandelier hanging from a height. We were all kept up high until we were half burnt down then we were sold off to help the poor folk in town. All trimmed up to look like new and l was given to a Vicar because he was first in the pew.
To the church the poor paid a penny for four which was hardly enough light to see them through the church door.
I now stand in a chaple under a stained   glass window but l am a candle what do l have to gain.
Now l no longer see the dark shadows on the wall just a beautiful image of St Paul stained in coloured glass with blue birds flying above my head l now know this is my final bed. This is where l want to be so l will go on burning my wick until l get sick
When this finally happens l will prey to St
Paul and ask him to bless me as my wax runs down the wall.