My mam and dad
made fun of death
like you do
when you don’t believe
it will happen to you.
They talked lightly of
“falling off the twig”
and “leaving the village”.
Now they are both dead:
they have fallen off the twig,
they have left the village.
What about you?
Do you feel the wind,
sometimes, shaking the tree,
blowing through its branches?
And have you yet glimpsed,
faintly, through the fog,
the last houses
at the edge of the village?
I do feel that wind, Peter. I have been meaning to befriend it to make the transition easier, beautiful as our world is.
Good one, Pete. Rather involving and thought-provoking than depressive. I've thought about that, too.
This is haunting and lovely. And yes, I feel the wind in the trees and I am still afraid to look too closely at the village in the distance. Raynette
Not crazy about this one Pete. Perhaps because I found the subject a bit morbid and depressing. I don't think any of us like to think about out own death. It's just all too sad and painful. I don't get sad about dying as much as I do about those I will leave behind and how I will miss being in their lives. Gyp's
er, thanks, Pete...oops, scuse me, gotta go to the washroom...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sometimes Peter, you cut right to core. This was one of those times. Excellent!