LOST BOWERS

Woes, like shadows in the summer's sun

hanging darkly under leaves and hanging rocks,

like the low notes of the organ 

in a vast dark medieval church,

they haunt, 

gaunt spectres acting out their interminable plays,

they move, mimic the dust

that travels in the sunbeams 

from pew to pew

in slow march forever in suspended time,

watchful lest we forget to say our prayer

to their memory, our love, our duty

bound to give its recognition,

where powerful emotions

direct the daily acts of drudge,

that beat at our necessities of life;

we pace the flagstones cold and grey

beneath our feet

a tear drops as we go

creating sudden splash,

its uneven moisture lies a black star

on the grave of some great hero

King or Queen,

but they are not your family or even friends,

their bodies now long rotted, gone,

and yet they, in their dank weeded sodden place,

lie where your loved one left his mark of grace, 

'tis his face now that fills the mind with sadness, 

memories of gladness flit about before our eyes, 

a mirage of surprise and joy,

but only for a moment

as they fade into the dark shadow of the pulpit,

and drag our spirits into mourning once again

at loss of this dear presence

once embraced, 

now gone.

We feel again forlorn,

our visions fade, 

the brain grasps fronds of wizened flowers

that hang their heads, 

now limp 

and useless, 

no longer bowers of joy

but dire depressive thoughts, oppressive,

heavy weights crush out the hope 

of ever reaching out once more

to grope that hand, see that visage

now etched in sands of time forever.

And as we step outside into the light of day

even light seems brash

and plunges us to thoughts of night,

as comfort contrast in our plight,

we tread on slowly

on the grasses green,

and yet they are unseen.