It's like a face
that has just looked away:
it's like the outspread
hand of a dancer
when the footlights
are cut. A faint
sickle gleam
is laid over its cheek,
and it turns with
the rising or the setting sun.
Darling, don't grieve for home:
the ghosts are gathered
thick enough already; the light
has already bled into the ground.
9 comments:
The last two couplets are a great treat.
(My own daughter grieved for home for about five minutes. There's a poem in there somewhere, too, I reckon.)
Ah, that's lovely.
Lovely. And yes, the grief that cuts much deeper for us than for the ones looking back at us.
Nice.
Oh, what a darling daddy. How could she not grieve for home? Beautiful, Dale. :)
...then they come back. At least, that has been my experience.
I think we grieve for the light, the face, the outspread hand all our lives.
Thanks for reminding me of that.
Thanks, dear friends.
(And Joyce, yes, they do indeed! "How can I miss you if you won't go away?" as the song goes... :->)
This is wonderful and of course it rings a bell, a big one, inside my head.
Post a Comment