The Longest Day

Cherry

By Bee

Fri, 28 Mar 2014
  • 3638 reads
13 comments
 

The quickening thrill 
still trembles in the memory
of my palm cupped gently
lest I crushed the terrible delicacy
and tender fragility 
of embryonic beginnings.

They thought me young to bear
the burden of responsibility.
The kindest thing - to kill it
and put it out of future misery.

But stubbornly I clung
to the beat of a minuscule heart
and the feather breath of chance
for as long as I could hold it.

I walked the length of day, light
in the knowledge of the proof
of the life I held in my hands.

They caught up every now and then
to try their best persuasions on me,
but doggedly I clung to hope
in all the vagueness 
of finding ways to nurture 

the winged and legged thing
that fluttered moths
of excitement in my belly
every time it flickered movement. 

I vowed I'd feed it -
I wanted and needed it -
the mother in me yearning,
yet learning against my will to listen.

As curtains cloaked the day
They were waiting, knowing
I'd return to reason. 

And anyway, at just 13 
I didn't have the power to decide -
the hour had come. And so

I opened my defeated hands 
revealing hunger in bright and ugly beauty,
her blind eyes bulging dark goodbyes;
softly beaked gratitude for useless kindness.

I don't know where they took my chick
but later heard they'd crushed it
with a brick. The kindest thing, they said.
and hope was dead that day
so long ago.

Certificate PG
Poem
Autobiography

Comments

Submitted by Rhiannonw on

I take it this is about a spring fledgling? Some bits seemed to be leading towards a deeper subject close to your heart (eg that fluttered moths of excitement in my belly every time it flickered movement). You capture some of your emerging feelings well. Rhiannon

 

Submitted by Bee on

Hi Rhiannon.

Not a fledgling, but a newly hatched blackbird chick I found on the ground in June when I was on holiday - age 13. Our family were there with another family of friends and they kept telling me to hand the chick over to the dad of the other family to finish it off because it wasn't fair to keep it as I wasn't in any position to rear it. But I wouldn't give it up and walked the whole day with it in my hand until at last I had to go back. Then the guy took it away and killed it, and having 'bonded' with it, I was upset to say the least.

Thank you for your perceptive comments.

Bee

Submitted by Ray Schaufeld on

Oh dear, Dads and small creatures. Your slug at the Wheatsheaf fared no better, Bee and I like slugs especially the black rubbery ones that appear to be manufactured out of Goodyear tyres. My father was often the family softie, one year he put down strawberry nets. I remember him in the back garden on the bench with the nail scissors, painstakingly cutting out the net, it took him a good half hour, so that a small heart-beating struggling thrush was able to fly free and that was the last of our strawberry nets. It was better to let the birds get  the berries than to let the neighbourhood cats get the trapped birds. And then we had a greengage tree, lovely luscious green plums. Of course when we had our summer fortnight by the sea the wasps dived in and pretty much got the lot.

An effective poem, you must have been a broken-hearted young person at the time.
 

Submitted by Bee on

My dad couldn't do that either, aside from being somewhat inconsiderate to slugs, he's a softy too. It was pretty heartbreaking at the time. I kind of imagined I could crush up worms for it, but everyone was against any effort to save it. I've since hand reared many birds and know how much commitment it takes and realise I probably wouldn't have been able to do it. But it was hard to cope with at the time.

Thank you for sharing your story about about your dad, Elsie. That was great to hear. 

Bee

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

The hallmark of good writing; its reader discovering something new on each reading...as here, Bee.  Heartbreaking, in its entirety.

Tina

 

Submitted by Bee on

Thank you Tina. That is praise indeed and very much appreciated.

Bee

Submitted by jeand on

Hi Bee,

This was a lovely gentle story, each word in the beginning stanzas  contributing to the feeling of protection and care. We are knew that there was going to be a bad ending for the little piece of life, and of course there was.  Beautifully done.

Jean

Jean Day

Submitted by Bee on

'little piece of life' - how well you describe it, Jean. That's exactly how I felt. 

Thank you,

Bee

Submitted by hudsonmoon on

I remember the power of emotions at that age, Bee. This was excellent.

Rich x

 

Submitted by Bee on

Yeah, it was pretty unbearable at the time. Thank you so much for reading, Rich - and for your lovely comments.

Bee x

Bee

Submitted by Bee on

Cherries! Thank you.

Bee

Submitted by Tom Brown on

Why don't you write more about things happy and positive? It is not good to dwell so much
on the mistakes and misfortunes of the past it is not healthy. It makes one even more unhappy.

Keep on writing Bee! Tom

 

Submitted by Bee on

Hi Tom.

 I hope this hasn't depressed you too much. I tend to write whatever comes into my head, and like a lot of people, I'm more often inspired to write when moved to do so by the stronger emotions which aren't necessarily happy ones. I'm sorry about this. I will take your good advice to heart and try to focus more on the positive from now on.

Just wondered if you liked this poem, or not. If my stuff is as you say, too miserable for you, and I think you may have a point there - (it can be pretty dismal), may I suggest you seek out one of the happier, more positive poets on the site. There is one that springs to mind, and she always writes in the most inspiringly happy and delightfully encouraging way, and is prettily named after my favourite flower.

Thank you for your comments. I appreciate your honesty.

Bee