Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Lucia says that
Mother’s dying, but

Father’s not said a
Word, he just comes and

Goes, treading soft on
The stairs, his eyes dark

Downcast, his head bowed
Like some chastised dog.

You sit on the stairs
And Bowyer leans his

Wet mouth on your lean
Shoulder, the dribble

Seeping into the
Cloth of your dress, his

Warm tongue licking your
Ear. Lucia says

Not to sit in the
Icy chill, you’ll get

Haemorrhoids, she moans,
Sitting there, you’ll be

Ill. But you sit there
Still. There are no sounds

From Mother’s room. Just
Father’s daily tread

Back and forth, like some
Pilgrim in flight from

The devil’s night. Some
Days Lucia takes

You for walks in the
Grounds, holding your small

Hand in hers with your
Dog Bowyer behind

Wagging his tail and
She talks of the trees

And the flowers and
Mother’s decline, her

Voice droning on in the
Wind’s wings, but you do

Not listen, or like
Her cold hand in yours

With its redness and
Sores and you recall

Her with Father in
The kitchen’s heat, his

Lips upon her cheek
Lifting her off her

Feet. Mother’s room is
Empty now; the wood

Coffin came and went
And few mourners, too.

Now Lucia sits
Where Mother sat, talks

And laughs as Mother
Used to do. Now there

Are four around the
Table once again:

Father, Lucia,
Dog Bowyer and you.

The painting could produce umpteen poems as far as I am concerned but this is the one that came through.

Mother's breath has ceased to be.
Who'll drink Lucy's winter tea?

Father's mourning has begun.
Who'll eat Lucy's saffron bun?

Dogs can't talk, but she pretends;
where are Lucy's tamtar friends?

Father's lost and Mother's dead;
who will lighten Lucy's head?

Thank you, Joel.

a creative story, full of life's drama, the last two couplets are a good ending...

Thank you, Saw.

You are a good story-teller. I might not comment but I always read. jim

I know you do, Jim and thank you.