Unravelling and weaving, sometimes simultaneously

Witte Wieven

It’s late for frost, but just last night

a strong one fell on everything

that bit the soft presumptuous leaves

and iced my garden’s flowerlings.

Before the dawn I went outdoors;

it’s just a short walk to Fern Park,

and though the path is not well lit

I’d know my way there in the dark.

My grandpa lies there, granite bound

and has been there for many years;

next to him lies my grandmother:

“She shared her smiles and hid her tears”.

I felt the cold bench through my clothes

and pondered the grey slab of stone

with aching body, wondering

if death is better than alone.

For sixty-seven years they lay

beside each other since they wed,

and nine long years after he passed

she still made room for him in bed.

I always wanted love like that

the kind that goes past “death us part”

but now that I have loved, and lost,

I don’t know what to tell my heart.

A witte wieven was drifting up

as sunrise came and warmed my head

I left some flowers and a prayer

for both the living and the dead.



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