Mind moves in mysterious ways – at least mine seems to. The Daily Post writing challenge suggested “and now for something completely different” and although they cannot be held responsible, I found myself writing a longer than usual poem, on a subject about which I usually keep quiet.
After the break-up Some day I will tell my sons about their father. That was a man many years my husband, you would think this is a known tale. You would think they would know anyway. Maybe they do. Still I want my tale to be told. to come out of the darkness and dreams wittering their alternate universe in my morning waking. These knowings skitter their return to the labyrinth, hidden rats under the rock of consciousness. I will ask the wind to tell my tale. Gentle breeze slithering sussurating leaves, coolness brushing my hair. All around, the sound feeling its way among the trees, pale undersides of leaves talk each to each other. “It is there you know.” “It is there” The grass lies below jealous of sky. “Oh but we’ll go there” “When will you go?” “Wait, wait for the wind.” Feel him blow. The wind promises, a whisper of air. Breath of rush and rage and storm. From east or west gusted dangerous twister quarrelling harm. The wind will take all difference, all tales of difference With indifference. The wind can’t tell my tale. I will ask the sun To tell the story. I can feel pink light through closed eyelids. Vision rose-coloured I entered unseeing, unthinking, feeling only. Even the hairs on my arm stretched warm in his glory. In strong sun shining glare or warmth waves of fire and passion hide derision’s winter. Who looks with open eyes at the sun? He stops me seeing. Beyond heat beyond hate, there is no story. I will ask the sea to bear my rhyme. To take it as it comes white caps crashing splashing into heights, then merging, melding in smooth billows. A sea of joy and tears will not wallow in the pettiness of bitterness. The ocean has no time to hear self-pity. Raging, calm, green flickered grey or black, the words fall. Ocean says I have myriad magic voices. I don’t tell tales. I’ll keep them here, deep in my forgetting. Come ashore Live on Earth. Why on earth should I want to tell my sons about their father? He is. There, not-there. Walking, talking in his own world. Regret does not bruise him. Joy does not choose him. Strength and all his length of days Cannot help me Comprehend this ghost. He comes from my own dreaming Seeming real, then gone, lost. I stand on solid ground. I lived with him, and boys and joys. There is no need to tell my sons a tale. I gave to him, He gave to me, Together. We knitted the threads of their life. They live their own story.