Prompted by a line* from Fredrik Backman’s book, My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry
What day, which hour
Did un-magic reality arrive
Black-hooded visage and
At hand, Death’s scythe?
Did it whisper words ill-chilled
Declare edict in dark-masked roar?
Maybe mere sternly weighted nod…
Intuitive souls perceive, sigh
“Nothing will be magic anymore”.
Was it spring day, truth’s force struck
Childhood, stolen, slammed starlit door shut?
And the murder that slashed everything safe, sacred.
Perhaps it dawned post-honeymoon
Rages unrelieved dissolved vows soon.
Or, when fifty candles’ mocking mirror fired:
“All second chances stamped ‘Expired'”.
Flimsy notion, Imagination’s infinitude…
Fine substance flamed is elusive, fades
Like fallen rose petals leave but dust
To conjure half-drawn dream from hoarfrost-
Heart, scarred soul balanced on tottering legs
And held in palsied hands bent on scribbling
Scratchy-voiced poems’ acknowledgment
Of hard-edged fact: what worthy remnant
Time deigns deliver yet, ‘pink-cloud possibilities’
Wishes windswept…all allures pass swiftly.
Drink hope’s dregs, grateful thimblefuls blessed…
*‘Because nothing will be magic anymore’.
©Rhen Laird/Cobbled Contemplations, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.