Angelina
By Silver Spun Sand
- 5714 reads
‘Beat a path of retreat
up them spiral staircases,
past the tree of smoke
past the angel with four faces
begging God for mercy
and weepin’ in holy places’
Bob Dylan
All evening I’ve smelt patchouli;
the incense sticks you burned –
your precious ritual
at the end of every day...
somewhat hazy at first
then, like a Titian painting
you, sitting in that rocking chair
eyes – the colour of storm.
Earlier this morning
walking in the garden
past the crude, stone cross
I remember how the poppies
were redder that summer
and how loudly the cicadas sang –
sunning themselves...
the chisel marks that cut
your name have weathered now
the dates ill-defined, and
the full-stop – covered
by lichen and moss.
You might have even smiled
at the nosegay I’ve brought...
all vanillas, and pinks and
the softest of mauves...
sweet peas, your favourites
I shall never forget
and my eyes mist up...
wishing I could.
- Log in to post comments
Comments
It's good not to forget the
- Log in to post comments
I found this poem so
- Log in to post comments
Felt a bit choked reading
- Log in to post comments
this is lovely!
- Log in to post comments
new Silver-Spun-Sand Hi!
- Log in to post comments
Very beautiful, very sad.
- Log in to post comments
new Silver-Spun-Sand Oh!
- Log in to post comments
"the chisel marks that
- Log in to post comments
new MistakenMagic So glad
- Log in to post comments
I'm lost for words, Tina -
- Log in to post comments