A Rose For My Dear
Painting - Watercolor
Poem created for painting by Artist Maria Disley, another F.A.A. Artist/Poet
The Grandaughter Cell.
Like fresh linen, her washed out face
Holds nothing back,
She cannot hide from me
Under the scent of lavender, old roses, something like Lily of The Valley,
The symmetrically styled white hair.
Ive seen her sleep,
Suddenly in a chair,
Falling into the past
Like a homesick meteor.
Horror struck in waking, at home, without him.
In realisation, she puts the kettle on.
And tells me another tale.
Absorbs me into her youth
Which feels like some kind of mitosis.
We gel and fuse through years
Of unlived experience.
I adore her life of tragedy,
Its so alive and dense with ordinary, proletariat energy.
It sparks a fire in me undeniably.
In the cemetery, she cleans his headstone
We make time to have a graveside picnic
And talk to him as if hes swigging down a glass of beer,
Oh! God, her eyes are way beyond my reach,
So blue, so cloud- filled-blue,
I have to look away, and stray among the dead
I was not close to, while still I hear her yearning to be with him,
Her onesided conversation.
I read the chiselled names and guess at lives and what they left behind.
Some from 1489!
My grandmother calls me to say a prayer
wraps the old dry roses up and pours the green mossed water upon the coverlets of grass,
and accepts that shes the one thats left.
We sit in silence for a moment,
She prays for him, I pray for her.
Its a sad walk back, kicking the dazzling loose gravel nonchalantly
And then she smiles and says something positively cheery
And closes the gate to the cemetery,
upon the cell where his bones are laid to rest,
and where I'll visit soon,
and stroke my hands across both their names
and maybe take a rose each
for my dears.
Maria Disley 20/7/2014
November 27th, 2013
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