Turned and Gone Away.

This one explores a complex kind of sadness. I suppose it is a lament.

Turned and Gone Away.

For my loved sister, Jean.

Your house,

gripped by flood,

floats from its foundations,

sinking ever lower.

You sit on the roof.

I cry out to you, 

swim, throw a rope,

beg you to leave

but you can only wring your hands,

turn and float away.

Small and diminished,

you tremble before a precipice

filled with darkness.

I cry out that I understand

your fears of age,

diminished powers, loneliness,

the horror that shuffling dependency

may lead you into actions once unspeakable

but you can only wring your hands,

turn and step away.

In deep denial you reel

from the mirror, truth.

You close your eyes

and cover your ears.

I cry out that I understand 

how time and circumstance have trapped you,

that you have grown far too old for truth,

that you need to pretend you still are

the wonderful person you once were

but you can only wring your hands,

stagger and flee away.

You shuffle

down a long corridor

in the slow and painful way

of your last years.

I cry out that I understand

how extreme age forced you

into secrets, deceptions, 

and, much worse, sad betrayal 

of some you so loved.

I shout I love you and forgive you

but the words echo and bounce 

down the empty corridor.

You have ceased wringing your hands.

You have turned and gone away.

First published at Better Than Starbucks