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5. The Carrion Sky
The stark reality of loss, and the heavy silence that follows. (August Friedrich Schenck, ‘Anguish’)
The Carrion Sky
(Snow. Static. The world pared to bone-white, sky-grey.)
A breath held—
(the ice-scythe wind)
no, released. A final sigh,
unheard. The ledger snaps shut. Click.
Crows stitch the shroud of sky,
black beads on a broken rosary.
They keen their cold communion.
(My lamb. My little sun. Millie's light extinguished, Mr. Kitty's fading...)
Their shadows: ink spilled on snow,
an unreadable script of what is.
The heart, a frozen clod.
(Thump. Pause. Thump.)
This silence, yes. This is the seal.
My quiet rebellion: to choose the cold,
to own the ending they would not write.
No more the pleas, the documented cries
lost in the corridors of their indifference.
Only this: the dignity of snow,
the stark acceptance of the gathering dark.
(I tried. My warmth a failing wick for those I cherished.)
This is the absolution.
Not given, but taken.
A final word, whispered to the frost:
I am. Still.
Even as I become the hush.
This is so moving! And
This is so moving! And Schenk's "Anguish" is quite the haunting image. Nature is pragmatic which is probably the only way for it to be kind. Hope you don't mind this little verse inspired by both works aforementioned:
In the hush of snow-bound sky,
Let crows carry what was mine.
If grief must fall like silent ash,
Let it rest where cold is kind.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
Thank you redbrick
Hi redbrink, thank you for your thoughtful comment.
I do not mind at all, that is a delightful verse.
Alliswend bin ich nicht, doch vie list mir bewußt.