I'm taking a walk to the cemetery this morning,
be back before noontime for crumpets and tea.
I have two friends who died not so long ago;
they were brothers, treated me the same.
Had not spoken with them since that night.
The night it rained red glass and tears
'neath the stuttering lights on Dawsonstills Bridge.
Still, sometimes at night
i am awakened by the sound of it
somewhere still inside me.
You see, Death....will always find you, when it wants to
Thought it was time i stopped by to say hello
and along the way, i picked up a gift.
Habitual manners taken right to the grave...excuse the levity.
''Never visit someones home empty handed'',
that's what Mum always said.
Flowers are always freshest when laid in the morning dew,
still, by noon's end, they'll be wilting in the summer-haze,
laying still, decomposing...and my mind takes to thinking
just how morbidly apropos, this gift be,
as i knee-touch soft soil...place the spray by your stone.
[Now peace can be defined in myriad ways
But i sware, that serenity had draped its veil, where i stood;
And for the first time since their death, i sensed connection]
So, i filled them both in, on the towns latest skinny;
I could almost hear their voices upon the wind-whisps overhead;
Took a look at my watch...and it was time to head home.
Our time went by so quickly, did it not?
Like breeze through branches... leafless.
I really must leave, mortal duties, you know;
God, I really miss you guys...Can you hear me?
Yes, you're right, time, and destiny still be my keepers.
but i'll be back soon, to share more news and memories.
Just the three of us...yes, we will!
And as i head towards the black wrought iron gates,
i look back at the sea, of greystone and crosses,
and in a moment of self-pity, i shout to the sky: THIS IS IT? !
A sudden, stale mist tails me.....all the way home,
follows me like a pestilent cat, gone stray.
Made it back before noon, walked in to the scent
of tealeaf, and cinamon...voices of life.
Tea and crumpets taste freshest, before noontime,
and silk flowers on a table never wilt, decompose.
Think i'll take a drive into town, do my chores and such.
Take an alternate route, around Dawsonstills Bridge.
Then again, in truth... does it really matter?
You see Death will always find me, when it wants to.
.......Written August 14th,2007.......
Frank James Christopher Ryan, Jr.
........................F. j. R.........................
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem