A Dire Poppy

A poem written after the passing of my mother.

    A DIRE POPPY   

Winter is ebbing
towards us.
The helid frost, a stern routine,
riding the heels of the grim one
a relentless stranger,
imposing the circle of life's perpetuity-
encompassing everyone.
Frigid breath lingering after every exhale...

Lethargic -
drawing closer -
Relentless, sluggardly marching forth,
in corrupted skin- tourniquet tight,
around dark bone fingers;
that claw famished
deep into the essence
of the land we stand on.


Ancient.
Corrupted in,
rot blueish gray
tarnished and heavy roughed gauntlets,
Eagerly tighten their grip
upon warn slippery reins...
Then the moment comes,
when, you,
just can't,
breathe....

A ghostly rider in full stride,
a dance partner we all must oblige one day.
Upon thundering hooves,
beating into the ground in mom's direction;
from the moment we are born.


The void of absolute dread,
a churning gut,
gray plumes bleeding steady
from his drab flailing rags,
under the cover of a lost sun,
the few of kin,
open handed no solace.
Coming so much closer,
pounding of thunder-
a broth spilling mouth-


Mother's time upon us,
A foot to the ledge
ready for the moment
to dive
into the ether.


The one who brings illness
with each stride,
sopping wet hooves-
land shuddering under
a raven-black shroud-
in ribbons.
Tattered, filthy from an ocean of time-
dredging the cloak through
snow, mud,
until rag tails flow,
it´s the end the hounds at toe.


A snowy farewell
grief flowing through the cold of winter
a deep-cutting chill,
a shadow across the land,
wandering, lurking,
through the deep green damp
of the forest's darkness.

Winter is upon us,
wet, unceasing panting of the hunt,
teeth, hunger, drool,
Aching anticipation! -
Your blood red petals
now nothing but,
sorrow limp satin tears.
The towering pitch-black gates
are closed.
Hounds restless have her
scent, the end in motion.

Time relentlessly weighs on,
The moment is near.
A ghostly touch,
barely kissing each petal.

A faint crooning-
of familiar lullabies,
Words-
but wondering whispers
lost in the dark.

The cold long slumber is near.
Out of lush black soil she shot up,
reaching in silent despair,
Every ethereal fiber of your existence.

Why so much effort?
Why so much pain?
So much... fear?

For something in her life-
she never received....
Just a bit of warmth,
among jackals.
Something true,
within their endless disdain.
To be loved-appreciated...
were never on her bill.

In endless rows,
Trapped in Father's perfect symmetry.
The unspoken norm was uniformity,
They were fed equally,
Drank from the same creek,
"The same he swore holds the forest at bay..."

As things were,
Mom, she was a bit different.
We all could see-
Her essence becoming sadness,
Her petals giving in-
to droop under the weight of life.

II.


You
were my only,
amongst thousands
red in the breeze,
now, ashes where
fire preserved
a withered poppy.
I could’ve been a better son…

Hrafnar