As the national poetry month draws to a close, time for more personal thoughts.
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 seems 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 emigma with me remains.
So rest, in your 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.
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