No Matter

.

There’s still a tender scar

from the cutting of your grave

two months ago.

No matter, you would say.

You’ve flown into the springtime

where you’re planting bright impatiens

in the shady spots of trees

and hanging popcorn fuchsias

from the limbs of everywhere.

You see a million colors:

bearded iris, bright petunias

shades of greenery

puffs of petals

bobbing in the sun.

 .

Back home I listen

to your favorite symphony.

The room fills with the scent of roses,

How’d you do that, Mom?  I ask.

No matter, you would laugh.

 .

©  2016  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(This is for my mom who passed away peacefully on March 3rd at the age of 98.)

.

 

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Lament of the Night Watchman – 2012 posting

(Mayberrie series)

.

His castle rests on brambled shores

near curling leaves and browning lawn

as ivy coils through empty doors

where once his golden sword was drawn.

 .

For long ago the tower stood

shaped by wind and gleaming stones

and from the chapel in the wood

they heard the bell and felt the groans

 .

of lovers locked in false embrace

of thunder scavenged from the deep

where only he could show his face –

his mistress turned away to weep.

 .

They could not march beyond the hill

for fate had measured out their time

and all they touched was cold and still

and none could prove there’d been a crime.

 .

A dozen years but none to save

for lovers no more ring the bell.

Calla lilies crown the graves

where once an army rose and fell.

 .

And now the castle sleeps on shores

near curling leaves and browning lawn

as ivy coils across the floors

where once Excalibur was drawn.

.

©  1993,  2016   Betty Hayes Albright

.

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