On January the 17th 2043 I shall die.
Of this, the website 'Your Death Date' is certain.
Drunk last night I Googled death,
there was much I demanded to know-
Why, when I was only five, had he
slipped in shadowy form through
the foundations of the family home
slinking under the duvet like
father after a late night no-phone-call binge.
Lassoing tight her lungs till come morning
we found her, ashen and withdrawn-
her eyes caught in mid question.
And why, as we sobbed beside her bed
did he allow humour to enter the
scene, disguised as two silent crows
peering in from atop the burnt garden tree.
Why not have us discover in the company of angels
there chubby unscathed hands fondling her hair
till lifting her their whiter than white wings fan
her parting words of love and reassurance
upon our calm and understanding faces.
Maybe those next 11 years would have found
themselves forked down a different, far more amicable river.
On January the 17 2043 I shall die: so said the website I clicked upon
In the mantle of probing darkness, alone I pondered-
Would death take seat on a white plastic hospital chair
orceshtrating the bleep of the machines
as cancer burrows itself out of house and home.
would he scoop down like a seagull
through clouds of burning gasoline
scooping me from the roadside to lift me
from the shrapnel of bonnet and bone.
Into the firmament of the endless gathering mourned.
Or will he take note of these words
and instruct the angels to decline upon me fanning their wings
Upon those who will surely be by my side.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment