Flicking through the pages
of the cook book on her shelf
he found no recipe
for the handling of the nothingness
that clung to his numb heart
like a thick Waikato fog.
Words from the Jagged Edge of Truth
Flicking through the pages
of the cook book on her shelf
he found no recipe
for the handling of the nothingness
that clung to his numb heart
like a thick Waikato fog.
She was his first best friend,
his halo and his refuge,
his comfort and his belief;
she is his empty heart,
the words that tumble
on this, the saddest of days,
from his lips.
Shall we erase the chalkboard,
pen new letters on the wall of
mended hearts that once were
tombs of death and grey stone;
we shall live again, new lives,
birthed by a generous love.
We bury ourselves
when we bury the child
and in that dark hole
there is everything to lose
and nothing to gain,
we live with consequences
we live with the pain.
We don’t want your blood
to rain on our easter egg hunt
and we don’t want your name
emblazoned across our store front
and we don’t want your cross
to recall our traitorous stunt.
There is one lamb to rescue,
a whole earth to be brought into the fold,
a wolf to be outsmarted,
a rest to be had
in the midst of all our labours.
So this is how love ends, alone?
Yes, it is the way of all things,
a young man, a shy girl,
a long story stitched by time
until time itself snaps the thread
and the known becomes the unknown
and all things but mystery,
dust and memory.
Now he stands out there alone
watering the garden they made,
the tender care put to one side,
the optimism and joy
of the chrysanthemums
blurred by the tears cascading
down his weathered cheeks,
seeping through the cracks
of all the broken hearts.
The feeble flicker of light
at the end of the tunnel
retreats further and further
from my failing eyes;
the darkness crouches
in the shadows.
These are the familiar things,
in one context quite meaningless
to those to whom the song is unknown;
in another, they are the road markers
to the way home.