Claddach

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Hyacinth garden

Early December, yes, I was there she was too.

We left in the snow, her Claddach tight on left ring finger.

As we drove slow, we saw a man driving a wreck on the turnpike.

We arrived safely at the Metropark.

We got our tickets for the early morning Amtrak train.

Reserved coach, we were a pair of adventurers.



The train ride was long, an arrival together at Union Station.

It amazed us both, those olden day trains and forties era sleeper cars, with an exquisite terminal of ornate architectures.



In the Botanical Gardens, I offered her lime-green daydreams and zinnia kisses.

Passionflower streams, that woman was sweetness to my eyes;

Like a cove, of scented collection where corollas appear.



We went to lunch and saw a Hawk that spied the skaters rink.

To her I felt an eternal link.



The National Gallery was all together a palace to celebrate.

I thought reason to seek her love.

Her heart, and hopefully her hand.

We returned home oh so happily.



But alas, a short time passed.

A year, even in the shortest life is not that long a span.

A new arrival out of her past.

She had to do for her and not for me.

She slips her touch from my hearts painted renaissance.

For it is Brians song she sings.









I am like ancient Celtic Warrior, who has one enemy to battle.

Only my lonely demon that rattles throughout my hearts castle.



Somehow, the Celtic Warrior lost.

She left me and now I only defend the winters night.

My eyes closed to the light and the sense of redolence.

As midnight imbues a mighty barrier.

The wall of love undone, a wall, that I may never climb again.

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Starward's picture

This poem is exquisitely beautiful, and incredibly beautiful. To say that I have shared a similar experience is, perhaps, to offer a cliche; but, in truth, I have had a similar experience, and that allows the poem to be even more powerful and more effective as I read it. And, when I went through that experience, decades ago in 1978, I did not have a poem like yours to help me negotiate the experience and its consequences. Your poem is not only a beautiful verbal construct, it is also a statement of wisdom to others who are experiencing the same loss.


Starward