Flying Without Wings

Cherry

By Silver Spun Sand

Thu, 27 Mar 2014
  • 1089 reads
6 comments
 
Sea-birds...petrels, he’d recalled he’d told her...
they were – his little grandchild, as she'd held
those precious crusts – tight in her clenched,
rosebud fists; anyway, that was the way
they’d looked to him, then, as she'd stood
on the cliff in the wind – taking her breath
away...and she – his...
 
her eyes brimful with excitement, and tomorrows
as she tossed them into the air, until the squawking
and shrieking grew – fanfare upon fanfare, crescendo
upon crescendo, that sun-spangled, Sunday afternoon...
A day, a place, a moment, he was to remember, until
the end of all his moments
 
which was to arrive – aeons later, which to him, felt
like a mere blink of an eye...that last Sunday afternoon
a soft-shuttered one...ripples of sunlight filtering
through the blinds.  And she – sitting by his bed
holding his hand in her clenched, rosebud fist –
anyway, that’s the way it looked to him...then,
at Beachy Head.
Certificate PG
Poem
Silver Spun Sand Poems
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Comments

Submitted by Rhiannonw on

A lovely tale, and picture, Tina. Rhiannon

 

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

Thank you, Rhiannon. More than appreciated.

Tina

 

Submitted by Bee on

You've changed the title? Lovely images. I liked this a lot.

Bee

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

Thanks, Bee, and I'm pleased you stuck with it...title change, and allsmiley

Tina

 

Submitted by celticman on

time is a funny thing, ironed out but never even. Funerals, sound like repetition, rosebud to rosebud.

 

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

I like that, celtic: ironed out but never even; a good description of my attempts at pressing my other half's shirts.  Must be why they've opted for the do-it-yourself option.  smiley