One poem this week. One I wrote at the last Juncture 25 workshop.
Life has a habit if coming out of left field and telling you things you could never put into words. I had organised an exercise and as I set about the task with the others, out of the depths of my unconscious came this poem. Almost complete. I think I am standing too close to it to be critical. here it is.
Moon for night, candle light,
a wooden triple candle stick,
burning fast, gone too quick,
the holder unnoticed smoulders.
Life has a habit of getting in the way.
A butterfly life, my dead dear wife,
that Santorini sunset
might have consumed the world,
what would we have done differently?
Living has a habit of getting in the way.
Can’t hold a candle,
so the wood keeps memories.
Saturday was your fiftieth birthday,
yet you never saw forty.
There is so much more I wanted to say.
I would be interested to know what you think of it.