Hands

 

She always wrote about hands,

a frantic scrabble

through memory, a list

long and puzzling

until she revealed all

in one line,

‘I can’t remember his hands’

 

I am fortunate,

I remember your hands,

wide, strong, muscular,

nails bitten down

until cancer came

and you let the nails grow,

had to have them cut, month

after month, the only strong

thing about your body.

 

I remember your hands,

the music you played,

music that floated from the piano

music that flowed, burbled,

jazzed into being,

romantic music

that brings me to tears now

knowing you are not

making the notes.

 

I remember your hands,

the softness, the deftness,

the love-light caresses

more warming than sunlight.

 

I am fortunate

I remember your hands.

 

 

© 2006 Dawn Bruce

 

 

 

 

 

 Death in Winter

 

autumn

afternoon of drifting

fragmented and greying

 

bone softening

skin crumpling

dreams withering

into inner darkness

of winter

 

my heart is stone

my fingers ice

shadows flit

down corridors

firelight

stains my walls

 

embers fade

leave nothing smouldering

no warmth no sound

except the crumbling

of ash

the absence of life

the presence of death

 

 

 

'I think on peace'

 

 

warms skin and stone

 

drifts in twilight sheen

 

seeps into a night

 

of moonlight and shadows

 

 

spreads over the world

 

to places dry and harsh

 

war-raped cities around the globe

 

peace-thoughts come back to me

 

tattered in terrifying shreds

 

thin like a snake's discarded skin

 

 

I offer thanks for my space

 

of sunshine, fresh air,

 

smooth touch of paperbarks lining my street

 

sounds of water trickling into the fish pond

 

scent of azaleas and roses

 

comfort of my bed and my lover's touch

 

 

and in the universal order of this world

 

after each evening

 

mornings always arrive

 

 

 

© 2004 Dawn Bruce

 

 

 

 

The Rain Came

 

 

Brown fronds droop

 

heavy, glisten in shiny richness,

 

a richness too late

 

to give them life.

 

 

 

But in the next week

 

I see small uncurlings

 

in the heart of the plant,

 

green unfurling

 

with unthinking faith.

 

 

 

 

 

 

© 2004 Dawn Bruce

 

 

 

 

the coming of Spring

muted-grey of the early world
moaned soft and low

a secret power
took pity on this wan world
and spoke out
Let there be Light

and like a match struck in the gloom
light flowed from

sun

breathed green into the plants
and the world rejoiced
in this first day
of Spring

Dawn Bruce (c)

 

 

 

© 2006 Dawn Bruce