Passing Notes

by Carol Rogers

caroge@live.co.uk

 

 

Someone close is feeding her fruit -

perfectly budded grapes, sating her sorrow

with the sweetest pleasure as the skin

bursts on her parched tongue, releasing

the joy of fresh, sharp juice.

 

For her, it's as much a dream as anything,

as the pain has been muted by relief given

an hour or so since; she is retreating.

Her skin is chilled. She could be lying out

under the stars.

 

The rime of sugared frost in an unknown

glen is her final friend, as are the icicles

hanging in a nearby brook, which remind her

of musical pipes rising from a great

cathedral organ.

 

Someone knocks on her door. Expecting carol-

singers, she smiles, and joins in the song.

The fruit dries on her lips. Outside, two

tawny owls chorus the hours with the news:

it is done; she is home.

 

©2008 Carol Rogers

 

Carol would love to hear what you think of her poem - email her now

 

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