For B.W.
At home, she tries on voices,
accents echoing around rooms.
She says she can’t hold one down,
that she is sliding towards
a future language, not yet invented.
She spends her days planning
for disasters she hopes won’t happen.
Her life is filled with stockpiles,
logistics, anthrax, children and transport.
She yearns. She wishes for passion.
She listens intently. She knows
the names of every flower she sees
and somehow, that makes a difference.
She is rebuilding her nest and in it
she places feathers for comfort,
red grass for colour, amethyst
for intellect, iron for strength.
There is a right way to weave
it all together and she straightens
each piece into place. The words
come more easily these days.
This is a beautiful poem. I found it accidently while browsing the internet. It could be about me by someone I know, though I know it is not and I think it may be about someone much older than I am now. Thank you however, it is very touching andf makes me feel a peace.
By a completely bizarre coincidence, you have the same name as my grandfather…
Which now that I think about it explains why you found this site via Google… it was the poem I wrote for him, right?