Post by MoonyLuna on Mar 2, 2009 13:09:34 GMT -5
There are the sweet cakes, the streamers,
the flush-cheeked children who think today
is about the sweet cakes, the streamers.
There is the beautifully aloof, heartless sunshine;
likewise the bare-armed hills, crowned in azaleas
like extrovert brides; the city's thin, quiet streets
their safe-choice grooms
and all of us standing around, throats
stoppered with a hot knot,
a hard thought that's locked there
hands loose and empty, no casket to carry,
of course it's not as bad as all that,
yet when we wave and call "goodbye, good luck,"
the car doors' thud, thud-thud,
their soft somber tom-tom,
fills our backs and arms with a slow ache:
ghost of love's last, awful weight.
Copyright
Emma Neale
the flush-cheeked children who think today
is about the sweet cakes, the streamers.
There is the beautifully aloof, heartless sunshine;
likewise the bare-armed hills, crowned in azaleas
like extrovert brides; the city's thin, quiet streets
their safe-choice grooms
and all of us standing around, throats
stoppered with a hot knot,
a hard thought that's locked there
hands loose and empty, no casket to carry,
of course it's not as bad as all that,
yet when we wave and call "goodbye, good luck,"
the car doors' thud, thud-thud,
their soft somber tom-tom,
fills our backs and arms with a slow ache:
ghost of love's last, awful weight.
Copyright
Emma Neale