As a response to Crimson’s Creative Challenge, which suggested Autumn, a beautiful time when things die, I wrote this.
Click here to hear the poet read his words
she
she is
warmth
in the winter
sunshine
in the dark
a bird
that sings
butterfly wings
she is
gentle breeze
sending
transparent
autumn leaves
tumbling
through sunbeams
into heaps
for young feet
to scuff
into dreams
she is
waves
over stones
a violin’s
sweet tones
daffodils
in spring
an eagle
on the wing
she is
the night sky
full of stars
twanging guitars
a laugh
that can light
the longest night
she is
a smile
a glance
a mermaid
who can dance
blue sky
white cloud
singing
aloud
she is
a portrait
of love
a sculpture
a song
but
most of all
she is
gone
This is simply perfect. Sadly, she is no more.
I enjoyed hearing your read it, though I hoped you might sing it.
Jings, Keef, ‘simply perfect’!
You wouldn’t have said that if I’d sung it, the pipes creak a bit now!
I do like this. It reminds me of a song but I don’t remember which song that was. In short, perfection!
Thank you, Crispina, I’ll happily accept ‘perfection’!
The song – as hinted in the tags – is ‘She’, written by Charles Aznavour originally in French as ‘Tous les visages de l’amour’ (All the faces of love) but performed in my intro and outro by Elvis Costello.
Don’t it always seem to go? Thst you don’t know what you ot ’til it’s gone? 🎶💐
Beautifully writ, per usual!
Thanks, Liz. This time it wasn’t a Big Yellow Taxi but a Big Silver Bird!
“A bird that sings butterfly wings” is such a killer line.
Thank you, sometimes the words write themselves!
What a beautiful although such a sad poem 💞
Thank you, I’m happy you enjoyed it.
So beautiful, the lightness of the words and the rhythm of the sounds.
But then… the punch to the gut – emptiness.
Delicately sore.
Gotta laugh, Jenne, or else it’s hard to survive!
That last line just blew me away. Isn’t it amazing the grandeur our minds can create out of the memories of those lost. to us So beautifully done.
Thank you, Jodi, I’m happy it worked for you.
And yes, if we’re lucky we remember the good things more than the lesser.
As Pennyy says to Pingo in the eponymous book, ‘I don’t think you’re the best judge of your own memories.’
I thought of Aznavour’s ‘Elle’ when I first read this, but yours is the sad to his joyeux.
Cheers, Maggie, I just figured that, after all the joys of spring and summer, this is the time of year when everything dies…