Cenotaph

Winding his way between the cars, it comes as a surprise to find himself leaving the smoothness of the tar as he came upon the wet grass.

Tiny tears fall from the bent blades as he grazes past with each step.

Huddled underneath the bare branches of the Acacia trees an old bench weathers the passage of time, a lone sentinel.

Drawn to its dreariness he walks past the condemned boathouse, the smell of decay evidence to the rot of approaching death.

It takes little time for the wooden planks to leave ridges on his legs which remain hidden under his grey pants, as will the ridges on his heart.

A lament fills his ears,

two ducks circle,

announcing their arrival

they drop

to the surface of the lake.

Their bodies disturb the mirror-like calm as they splash and preen, breaking up the blackness in their motion, unaware of their intrusion.

His fingers trace the split that runs the length of the bench, a shard embedding itself under his nail.

Holding his finger up for examination,

the wrinkled hand seeming to mould into the ripples on the lake,

he wonders how it will feel,

returning to the earth.

6 Comments

  1. Really like the feeling of this piece. You capture and create perfect tone. A memorable poem too.

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    1. Thanks Toni – glad to hear you liked it. It has been a piece I’ve been playing around with for a long time until I felt I had got it right.

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  2. Hi —

    I do like this poem. I like the way you suggest that the man is curious, rather than afraid. And the way he is already merging back into nature (his hand moulding into the ripples of the lake). Really like the picture, too.

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