Mother at the Gate

The gossamer on a child’s frame, looked new and ancient, all at once. A ghostly smile, a trick and treat, directed at me. No wrinkles on the hand of time, his godforsaken finger pointed at the stabbed pigeon. I followed the tracks of blood down to the river. I seemed to have no choice, in this misty sequence. A grief-stricken mother lay next to her child. A solo, red shoe alongside the body. Gossamer-boy wore the other shoe, pristine-white. A wicked groaning bellowed from inside the frame of this devil’s child. The mother moves beside a grave and deposits dead roses on her son’s tomb. She lost both her children that night. One she claims a t the gate… the other is left to his fate.