The Lonely Wynd.

      Today's poem was written shortly after the death of my mother, so is a very personal out pouring, but I'm sure lots of you have been there.

The Lonely Wynd,

At the bed, death's waiting room,

the family muster,

with empty words, wrapped in thoughts of death,

gaily chatter.

Outside, hungry birds feed, sing and fly,

their chirpy songs seem to call her death a lie,

but summer's sun

reaching through the window pane

sadly smiles,

knowing they'll never meet again.

I wonder,

in coma wrapped, what were your thoughts.

Pleasure,

looking back at what used to be?

Pride,

at how, to this life happiness you brought?

Perhaps it was a welcome rest from pain,

a just pause in your long struggle;

alas, too late, this enigma with me remains.

So rest, in that rest, peace be your gain,

for you dear mother, an end to trouble,

as love's boundless force could not break

death's firm grasp upon your heart,

passionless devouring cancer

unmoved by prayer on our part,

took your hand along that lonely wynd,

death took time

fused the moment on our mind.

In the midst of family,

alone dear mother you had to die.