Sons

Sons

it lay in pristine solitude behind the glass front door

a medium-sized brown envelope, she'd seen the type before

still, being in rejection mode she made a cup of tea

inquisitive, not really, she knew the contents, see

even who the sender was and the message that it bore

 

morning had dawned slowly, while night ran off, untold

those later vacant faces and the church had been so cold

and booming, as if empty, though noisy and quite full

interminable singing and the sermon long and dull

slowly shuffling bearers for her boy who'd not grow old

 

sooo, somewhere in the distance lay the substance of a man

she back-tracked down the years to where their great affair began

along the paths of memory the nettles and the rashes

and lightly gilded cameos, ah those dreams and ashes

where were the first steps taken and how the rivers ran

 

surprised, the night lay quietly, on the middle-evening streets

and listened while her guitar played it's music soft and sweet

in shadow on the front porch each note soothing the dark

like softly whispering rivers or a tree breeze in the park

she played without expression for a life that's incomplete.

by david lavisher (Viewed 138 times)