coup de grace

coup de grace

bowed, over railings
of ice,
and iron,
the cemetery stares me down.
faceless, it blanks me
with sunlit stone,
frigid and unyielding
to the touch,
despite light living there.

George Arnold -
'Died broken-hearted'
one early April.
i imagine late bluebells outside,
fringing his vision;
his final shuttered gaze.

Marianne -
'Our little angel
who fell asleep'
one July.
i imagine choking heat
as broken parents,
red-eyed and ragged,
forced toys into the loft;
moving them closer
to a sense of heaven.

as the ice cries out in shatter,
i wonder what words
shall be etched for me.
i'll have no say,
and
have no idea,
who may.

we begin,
as words on paper,
we conclude,
as words on stone.

what may unfold between,
can be so shiveringly dark,
and so shimmeringly bright.

right now,
silently
i plead for the light.