An old school friend of mine posted this piece, just today. He wrote it to for his late mother, and reports that she enjoyed the humor and sentiment.
Untitled
she would go for her little lie down,
a roast in the bellies of her family around the fire,
talk of folklore at the edge of dreams,
and a wind washed fort lost to the sea.
she'd wake at the early dark,
summon her children to stand by the bed and say,
"i died - it's the greatest feeling"
to which the swift responses rang out,
"no one was expecting you back, what's for tea?"
"you must have missed us, why didn't you stay?"
"the auld fella let the fire go down, but we'll have a wake the next time."
"if you become a saint, we can have a processional
she'd rise with a smile and poke the fire and stare
when the house fell quiet again
i wondered if i too could find peace,
die
time and time again.
