Elegy
It's Christmas Eve.
Mired in her melancholy,
wrapped in present reveries
that she alone may open,
though there'll be no new surprises,
only loss, and somber songs
to accompany the pictures of her son;
forsaken by the light she's not quite
ready for exposure.
Crows squawk a chorus in a leaden sky
and there's a sprinkling of snow
as mourners cluster black and white
like so many stoic penguins
round the gaping wound of earth.
The box so tragically small reverberates,
sealing the fate of one taken
too early from the fight.
Well-wishers scatter to their cars,
restart their cell phones, return
to Saturdays spent manicuring lawns
and custom fingernails.
Bereft of a daily blueprint,
her aching loss too new for words
to render any pleasure, still
she has her novels and her neighbours,
her crosswords and her cat
but a pain deep in her heart
for which there is no measure.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2012
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