Today is now more commonly known here by the American phrase "Mothers' Day" but I prefer the older British term "Mothering Sunday". I've decided to share here a poem that I wrote shortly after my mother died and I had taken the decision to spend some time travelling around the world in search of different skies, which is the title of the poem.
Different Skies
On yestereve the skies were clear
And all I loved were with me here,
But suddenly the freezing rain
Has filled the world with endless pain.
The places that I stood before
Have changed now and for evermore,
And all I valued, all I prized
Is lost beneath this different sky.
The streets I walk seem colder now
Distorted by the pain somehow,
And where once I saw the pools of light
I notice now the walls of night.
The only answer I can find
Is to leave this empty place behind
And by breaking every tie
Seek warmth beneath a different sky.
December 1998.
(I confess that I made up the word "yestereve", though I see it does appear in some online dictionaries, usually the less reliable ones. I like it anyway.)
1 comment:
I don't have the same desire to search for 'different skies', but I can certainly relate to the sentiment. I try to think of it as a realisation of the inevitable, that helps - sometimes?
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