Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
Died on a Friday morning before the commuters
rose, in the unpeopled hours of fox-play and
crow-calling, watching the curtains begin to glow
pregnant with morning light and I glowing too

with something heavier still. It pulled me,
anchor through cotton sheets, I sank into an atom
and burst, filling the room with a sigh and then
nothing, as the sparrows began to stir and the
alarm clocks chorused, the men and women and
the city too rubbing sleep from their eyes and
stretching up to ceiling highs, hundreds of feet
stepping out of hundreds of doors, the metro gates
welcoming the first early passengers, the parks
their first day-gazers, the newspaper stands their

first look at yesterday’s news. The sun slipping its
fingers mother-like through the unbrushed curls of
already-late-so-what’s-the-point-in-running school
boys and girls, the last wave of arrivals washing up
on the pavements below my window as the elderly
men straighten their waistcoats, as the women
hold their arms as light as birds, all those people
and all this city and all that light, minus one, and
another, and another, until they return home in tides
again and rest under indigo blankets and star-shine,
always so sure that the morning will be theirs and

the mourning not. I was there that Friday morning
before the skyscrapers emerged like silver fangs out
of the purple nightscape, before the planes
could leave tally-marks of a thousand missed
opportunities stapled over the sky, before the
first peals of a car engine could rumble and purr.

I was there, and then not, all at once, and the
mourning was mine, and the morning not. But

for a moment I glowed, filling the room with a
heavy light and a sigh that only the hedgehogs
could hear in their quiet retreat, that only the
house could hold as a bead of sound in the silence
and it was morning to me, it is mourning to
you, waking into a wake, and the commuters rise
with toast from what was bread, the phone-lines
begin to quiver with voices, impatient and unafraid,
and we lie in a silence that is full of patience and
full of fear and full of routine regrets and regrets
of routine and you have the morning still, whenever
you choose to leave, and I have it too, somewhere,
perhaps sometime, perhaps someway else, other,
empty of hours, and endless light.
I was stung by the news of inknalcohol's passing and this poem wouldn't leave my pen.

Say Hello last time
foxseason Featured By Owner Dec 18, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
:heart: :heart: 
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Dec 18, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
So many of us were, honey. It is heartbreaking. :heart:
Add a Comment:

:iconcomatose-comet: More from comatose-comet

Featured in Collections

written works by evermirror

Treasured Literature by LadyLincoln

Literature by Kharbon

More from DeviantArt


Submitted on
December 18, 2016


34 (who?)