Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Fresh from another lonely musing drive home, I hit the computer and wrote another poem.
Passing
driving home tonight
the moon is hung like a big bronze gong
over the city of scurrying people
it beats away the golden hours
drawing slowly towards its zenith
and the moon sings
I stand edged on a precipice
searching again for your face
some glimpse you once existed
beyond footprints in a photo
a song arcing against sky
favourite blue bowls
squat unused in a cupboard
your hands wrapped them
in paper cocoons
I cannot undo
reaching all beyond to herself
my computer sighs incessantly
unyielding of files
you created,
images pulled
from a tangled Web
a shadow passes like a cloud
a green watch
honourably scarred in travel
lies broken on my dresser:
another gift
I can not bury in a wastebin
the moon howls outside my window
and I can not bury you
not yet.
and then I logged onto my email and found out that another very dear friend of mine had died this morning. How strange life is: how strange and yet so beautiful. It gives with both hands and then it takes away, leaving us staring and wondering "why?".
I have a feeling of us all standing on the edge of a cliff, our hands linked. One by one we fall backwards over the cliff, pulling the next person with us. But the air beneath us flows and pulsates in different patterns, and it seems gentler to be falling than perhaps it seems from the top of the cliff. But I can't see any more. I go to bed feeling very wistful and inevitable.
email me: piokiwi@yahoo.com.au
Piokiwi 1:48 am
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